The Caper
by Gunney
Summary: The conclusion to the Convent/Camp trilogy. Camp 13 is threatened, Hogan and his men wounded and scattered, and Hochstetter is hot on their trail.
1. Chapter 1

The old windmill was a solid towering structure, but barren inside. It was built to serve a purpose, and had very little in the way of creature comforts.

But for the stone milling wheel, the cranks and shafts and gears, and the ladders that twined up and around allowing access to the mechanical parts that might need repairs or oiling, there was no cosmetic beauty to the inside.

High above the moving parts of the mill there was a small platform. It hadn't been used in years. The tiny room that it formed sported a single hexagonal window, a similarly hexagonal floor of worn timbers and a small desk, with a broken-down radio.

Leaning on a cane for balance, Newkirk winced at the grime that touching one wire had left on his hand and shook his head, "You weren't kiddin' when you said there wasn't much left of it."

Master Aldrich Werner, the man who owned the radio, the windmill it sat in, and the vineyard on which the windmill had been built, shook his head. "It was a project of my son's when he was young. For his seventh birthday we bought him this. There are not a lot of friends for a young boy growing up on a farm. We hoped that he could make some with this."

"How did you power it?" Hogan asked, leaning heavily against the peaking wall behind the radio. The apparatus had once been connected to a line that ran down into the floor, but the wire had been severed.

"The windmill." Master Werner replied, gesturing vaguely toward the giant arms that were stilled at the moment. "An old friend of ours built and installed a generator on the main gear. All that Hadrian need do was start the windmill and he had power. When the Gestapo came through years ago they found the radio, as you see it now, cut the power cord and demanded to see the generator. They shot it full of holes, and practically destroyed the main gear as well."

"But the windmill still turns." Hogan said, then broke off into a coughing fit that left him hunched painfully against the wall.

Werner waited patiently until the colonel had straightened a little, unable to hide the concern on his face. But the minute he had heard about it, the colonel had insisted that well or not, he needed to look at the radio. "The windmill turns, yes, but not during the winter. It would be a red flag to any suspicious soldier passing through this area. Even if he knew nothing about milling, he might see the motion and decide to investigate. We can not risk it."

Hogan nodded his understanding, but resisted saying anything, his face still red from the coughing fit. He leaned in closer to the radio moving various parts, and testing the connections of the wires.

Newkirk watched the colonel, hesitant to touch anything that he might break, and asked, "Can it be moved into the house? It's freezin' up here."

Werner was already shaking his head, even though his eyes held oceans of pity for the wounded but determined men. "It is bolted to the table. The table bolted to the floor. The bolts are old, rusted. And…frankly…here the radio is harmless. In the house it would be a beacon. I…I can not risk the lives of the people depending on me."

"Not a problem." Hogan said quickly, his voice pinched, but his response fast enough to cut off the protest Newkirk was about to voice.

"Colonel…"

"Leave it, Newkirk. Let's get ba-" He couldn't finish the sentence, and the racking cough left him with aching ribs, a head that felt like it was about to explode and his throat raw.

Getting back down the maze of ladders was an exercise in patience and will power. The waiting put stress on Newkirk's gunshot wound, and each breath needed to keep from passing out forty feet in the air, threatened another coughing spell from the colonel.

By the time both men collapsed into chairs in the kitchen, Ida Werner, the Master's daughter-in-law, stood over them both fuming in all her pregnant feminine glory and Miriam Werner, the matron of the house buzzed about snapping in German about foolish young men, playing soldier when they could barely stand.

"The radio. Will it work? Can it be done?" LeBeau asked bringing hot tea for both men, his shirt front and hands coated with flour. He was walking, but with a noticeable limp, and could not spend long hours on his feet, yet.

Even as Newkirk was preparing to say, "Not on your bloody life."

Hogan was vigorously nodding his head, yes.

"You've got a fever, sir, still can't breathe three times in a row without losin' a lung. You mind tellin' me how exactly you're going to get that radio to work?" The Brit demanded, lingering pain in his leg giving his voice a little more acid than he'd intended.

Hogan opened bleary eyes and took his first careful sip of the tea, sighing softly as the mix of natural honey and herbs soothed the fire in his tonsils. Then he pointed a finger at Newkirk. "You. Caine. Carter."

"Me, Caine, Carter…we know nothin' about radios."

As if on cue Master Werner walked into the room and plunked a thick book into Newkirk's pleading hands.

"Emp-fanger und Sender Reparatur.." Newkirk sighed and flipped through the pages, shaking his head at the diagrams, instructions and faded black and white photos. "It's in ruddy Germany. I can hardly understand the thing in English-"

"Caine.." Hogan said patiently.

Newkirk considered for a moment then nodded and said, "Alright, what about power."

"Carter."

As hard as he tried Newkirk just wasn't the 'we can do it' type by nature, and he hated himself even as he said, "Carter's not an electrician, he's spent the past four days milkin' cows, how-"

"Carter could make a detonator out of hair oil and a piece of string." LeBeau cut in.

Hogan nodded. "Tell Carter, need an _electric_ detonator, with continued output." The phrase cost him, but both his men responded with the beginnings of understanding.

"A generator." Newkirk said, and Hogan nodded.

Still fighting the natural devil's advocate tendencies of a man born with only the luck that he made for himself, Newkirk gave Hogan a tired salute and grabbed the cane, pushing himself to his feet.

"I'll go drag Carter from his precious cows, then." He said and limped back into the cold.

* * *

Andrew Carter had milked a lot of cows in his life. His favorite cow had been Addie. Addie stood at 50 inches, a speckled black and white Holstein that he had raised from birth. He'd been there to bring each of her calves into the world, and had wanted to be there for the day that she finally left it, but Addie had passed a few weeks after Carter went overseas.

She hadn't really been a pet, but she'd been with him a long time, and he took it hard when the letter came explaining her passing. The other guys in the barracks hadn't understood, but Carter didn't care.

The day that he was introduced to Master Werner's prize milker he fell all over again. She wasn't a Holstein, and she didn't necessarily look like Addie, but the gleam in her eye, and the feisty little kicks that she gave most of the other hands who dared to try milking her, certainly did.

Werner warned Carter that he might get stepped on or worse, but the farmboy knew better and to Master Aldrich Werner's amazement Carter not only got close enough to milk her without injury, but got almost two pails out of her in one sitting. She produced five gallons that day. An absolute record.

Aldrich Werner was not the only one to notice. Two people on the Werner farm were able to milk Brunnhilde. Aldrich Werner, and Hannah Meier. Hannah was a refugee. At five foot two, 23-years-old, weighing about 100 pounds even, she was a spitfire of energy, attitude and a willingness to take on the world by herself if she had to. A German version of Carter's buddy LeBeau, but with more hair and less cooking ability.

The day that she was forced to step away from Brunnhilde to let the new American POW try his hand, she stood back with her fists perched on her hips ready to laugh like a maniac when Hilde kicked him but good. Except that Hilde didn't kick. Carter got through the milking like a whiz, and by the time Hannah was finished with her chores and came back to check on them, Carter had managed to get more out of the old girl than Hannah ever had. All five of her years in hiding, outraged at the Germans and even more mad at the Americans for not stopping them, made her blow up.

She snatched the pails of milk from Carter toting them away from Hilde's stall so fuming mad that she couldn't hear beyond the boiling in her ears. When Carter caught up with her, trying earnestly to take the pails from what looked like a girl too skinny to carry them, he watched in awe as she hefted the heavy buckets and poured the milk into the steel lined receptacle without so much as a grunt of effort.

Once her hands were empty she whirled on the sergeant, snapped a half-dozen choice insults in Yiddish-spun-German, then shoved a bony elbow into the sergeant's gut as she walked past him. The sharp, pointed appendage landed square in the middle of his solar plexus hard, and Carter had to take a few wheezing moments to recover.

By the time he had collected his breath, and the two empty pails he was in love.

Four days later, when Newkirk limped into the barn, not too pleased at the smell but glad for the warmth, he found Carter and Hannah at each other's throats again, arguing over the way Carter was mucking out one of the stalls.

Hannah, per usual, appeared to be winning the argument. Newkirk found a milking stool and lowered himself onto it, prepared to sit back and enjoy the show. The fact that Carter spoke mostly English and badly pronounced German, and Hannah spoke only Yiddish, German and a handful of perfectly pronounced American phrases, did nothing to stop the two from carrying on hours of arguments.

"You are wrong, Carter. All wrong!" Was Hannah's favorite go-to, and she spat it out before snapping the handle of the straw rake back into her possession and stepping past Carter into the stall.

"Hannah, I been mucking out stalls for a coupl'a decades here, I know what I'm doing. Ich weiss, was ich tun."

Hannah spun around and laughed, "Ich weiss, was ich tun? You don't know nothing." She said, then mumbled in German. Newkirk caught something about Americans and questions that answer themselves. Hannah bent to rake at the stinking hay and Carter stepped in to grab something that Newkirk couldn't see.

The end result was that the end of the rake handle was jabbed into Carter's stomach and the sergeant went down in the hay with a grunt, and all the air leaving his lungs.

Newkirk leaned over on the stool until he could just see Carter's rapidly reddening face. The sergeant noticed the corporal for the first time and weakly raised a gloved hand in greeting and Newkirk smirked and waved back, giving Carter a 'take your time' motion, and lighting the half a cigarette he'd been saving. Carter nodded and closed his eyes, then crawled out of the stall, bits of soiled straw clinging to the overalls he was wearing.

Hannah was oblivious to the damage she had done, and continued to viciously muck out the stall, her mumbled protests eventually falling silent.

Carter managed to get to his feet halfway to where Newkirk sat and it was then that the Englander realized that the rake hadn't hit Carter in the stomach, but a little lower. Carter sat down on a nearby stool gingerly, and stayed in a hunched position, even as he nodded a greeting to his pal.

Newkirk winced sympathetically, and waited until Carter started to look a little less green, before offering the cigarette.

"You uh…gonna be alright, there chum?" Newkirk asked cautiously.

Carter gave him a sheepish nod, his eyes watering still as he leaned over to check on the firey woman who had finished the first stall and moved on to the next.

"I don't get up and help her in a minute she'll come out and whack me again for being "ein lazy Amerikanisch". "

"I'm tellin' ya Carter she's a lost cause. She'll either break your heart or break your…em."

"Might have already done that." Carter moaned softly. "How's that radio look?"

"I'd be the first to call it another lost cause but the colonel wants us to give it a go. He needs a generator." Carter immediately opened his mouth to respond, but Newkirk interrupted. "He said to tell you, "Make an electric detonator with continued output."

For a moment Carter's mind was at work, translating and computing, before Andrew said, "Oh! Well that I can do."

Newkirk was mildly shocked, but straightened and asked, "Tell me what you need and we can get started on it right away."

With one last cautious glance down the length of stalls Carter got gingerly to his feet and led the way quietly out of the barn, practically on tip toe. Newkirk followed, snickering in delight.


	2. Chapter 2

Berlin was cold, swept still with the remnants of the snow storm that had buried the south, and crisp with the promise of more snow on the way.

The small office that Wolfgang Hochstetter occupied had a single coal stove for heat, and a single window for natural light. The electric bulb over the desk was turned off, as always, for conservation purposes, although the major was aware that he was one of the few in the building to take such precautions.

Despite the dead chill outside the phone against his ear felt alive, and too hot for comfort.

"There are only four roads leading out of Passau. Only four possible directions they could have gone. Half the men were wounded, it should not be this challenging to find them."

The voice on the other end of the line, belonging to a twenty-five-year-old sergeant who had just barely kept his life in the last week, squeaked in protest. The search area was too big, the snow still too deep on the ill-kept country roads. The truck was not made for cross country trips.

Excuses.

Hochstetter was tired of hearing them and hung up on the voice that was making his stomach hurt, only to have a second call ring through the moment the receiver was at rest. To this voice he immediately stiffened to attention, "Yah, Herr Inspector Schimmel. Yah…I was unable to report because.."

Hochstetter winced and found his hand reaching for the sharpened letter opener laying on his desk. As his superior thundered on, Hochstetter jabbed the pointed end into a well worn hole in the blotter and twisted.

"Yah, Inspector Schimmel, if you would just-"

They wanted to know why Hogan had been taken to Austria instead of Berlin. He didn't have answers for them. Try as he might, he was not a man with a gift for creativity or lying. He was honest, stalwart, focused and given to fits of anger, but he was not creative. That was why he had needed Hogan in the first place. It was why he had worked so hard to vet him. And now…

"Yah, Herr Inspector. I will report as you order. Yah, Herr Inspector."

The click filled the small room and Hochstetter sat slowly, releasing the letter opener and staring at the long metal object that was so deeply buried in the desk it managed to stand up on its own.

Hochstetter had had it all. Hogan, most of the American's staff, Caine. But the major's need to follow procedure, his need to double check the paper trail and make sure that everything was in order, had forced him to entrust the most precious things in his care to someone else. And it had cost him.

Threats had apparently fallen on deaf ears, and he'd been unable to leave Berlin as his own superiors were now suspecting him of misuse of Gestapo funds and property. _He_ was under suspicion and his record was doing nothing for him.

Hochstetter hadn't seen his wife or daughter in a month. Julia Hochstetter, to whom he had been married for twenty-five years, had called his office a hundred and twelve times, leaving notes that piled up on the switch board desk, but Hochstetter couldn't face her, or his daughter, without his son safe and sound. He could hardly face himself anymore.

Oddly enough he knew that Caine was safe with Hogan. The American colonel would do everything in his power to keep Caine alive and well, treating him as if he were a fellow American. That he was German, a traitor posing as a Russian soldier, and the son of Hogan's sworn enemy didn't seem to matter.

Hogan was just as loyal to his country and to his duty, as Hochstetter was. Except that Hogan had what Hochstetter wanted, and hadn't needed to betray his country to get it.

Hogan had called Hitler's regime 'madness'. "Only an idiot would go along with the madness that Hitler's been dishing out," he'd said. And Hochstetter's son, his own flesh and blood agreed with the belligerent American. The Gestapo major was no fool. He'd seen the doctored reports coming out of the camps. Thousands of pages of death notifications with causes of death like, "Heart failure." Five thousand heart attacks in two days? Children younger than twelve having heart attacks?

Despite what the secret police seemed to stand for, Hochstetter relied on absolute truth in his work. He did not jump to conclusions, he made logical hypotheses and drew learned results. He could see a lie at a hundred yards. Hitler was using lies that stunk like rotten fish to exterminate those that stood in his way. Not soldiers, but civilians. It _was_ madness.

The major could hardly blame his son for defecting after watching that same madness take over his university.

But Hochstetter had found a way to survive in the madness. To keep himself and his family safe, fed, clothed and housed. They were not rich, but they were comfortable. Had he not then done his duty as a father, as a husband, and as a loyal German? Had he not defied the odds, and done his part? What more could he be expected to do for his country? But was this _his_ country? It certainly was not the Germany he'd been born into.

Caine had said that. "I was born in a country of greatness...a bright future full of invention, wealth and harmony. That is the country to which I remain loyal. But it is not today's Germany."

No…this wasn't Germany. This was _Hitler-land_.

He was brave enough to admit it in silence, in his mind. Could he be brave enough to act on it?

* * *

Five men and one woman stared at a brightly glowing light bulb. The metal socket into which it had been screwed, sat on top of a spare piece of board with a single wire leading from the light to an ice cream churn sitting on the floor. While Carter cranked the handle, Ida Werner, LeBeau, Newkirk, Private Caine, and Colonel Hogan watched as the filament hummed and the rounded glass gave off waves of heat.

It had taken the group twenty-eight hours of little sleep and non-stop work but under Carter's direction they'd done it. They'd busted three light bulbs and burned up at least fifteen feet of wire, but they'd done it.

"How did you end up regulating the power output?" LeBeau asked, remembering the disheartening pops of overheated glass.

"It's kinda anti-intuitive, but I created a friction brake on the handle. It produces just a little more electricity but it'll keep the wattage from overloading the circuits. Makes it harder to keep the crank going though." Carter responded, letting go of the handle. The generator gave a dying whine and the light from the bulb faded.

A barely audible voice, croaked. "You did great, guys. Get some slee-" The rest of the word was cut off with a weak coughing spell but Carter understood the gist and shook his head.

"We'd love to, sir, but we wanna see just how much we can get outta that radio before we lose anymore daylight."

"We're all with him, sir." Newkirk piped up, and LeBeau and Caine both nodded their heads in agreement.

They'd carted the ice cream churn and the lightbulb apparatus up to Hogan's room to show him that it worked and get the approval that they didn't really need before moving on with the next stage of repairs. It'd been an excuse to see the colonel who had been forced into solitude and rest by Ida.

The cough was weak, and it sounded terrible. The word pneumonia had been whispered through the house more than a few times. The men were already under the disapproving glare of the colonel's nurse, but waited for him to give the ok before they filed out.

They avoided looking at each other as they scattered, each with his own mental list of supplies that would be needed for the long hours of daylight they intended to spend working at the top of the windmill.

An hour later they had begun to take the radio apart, cleaning it and diagramming and labeling each piece before setting it carefully to the side. By noon the men were dragging, but determined to continue. A basket of hot sandwiches and tea was delivered by one of the children and the group ate, practically asleep while they chewed.

By four that afternoon they were forced to stop, despite the lack of progress. They almost lost Carter as they climbed down the ladders, the sergeant so tired that he missed three rungs and might have fallen the forty feet to the ground if LeBeau and Newkirk hadn't both latched on to a body part at the exact same time.

The following morning the day was warmer, the work a little easier with a full night's sleep. Using the diagrams and the repair book they started to build a smaller compact unit, making do with the parts they had and sacrificing or manufacturing other parts as they could.

"What I wouldn't give to have Kinchloe here." Newkirk said, for about the fifteenth time.

"Oui. I never would have thought it before, but we had it good at Stalag XII. If a part broke all we had to do was risk our lives to go into town and get another one from the underground." LeBeau said, facetious and earnest at the same time.

"Right, we didn't spend hours staring at ruddy German diagrams, no offense, Caine."

Caine shrugged. "It is Greek to me, too. I was studying aeronautics. No, that part goes there, Sergeant."

"What did you study?" Carter asked, removing and resituating the tiny piece of metal and glass in his hands.

"The year I left the polyteknicum I had been studying machining, aerodynamics and French literature."

LeBeau perked up, his face appearing above the back of the mostly empty radio shell. "Really? Who is your favorite?"

"I of course liked Dumas, Verne and Hugo."

"Hugo!?" LeBeau asked, making a face. "That unromantic, windbag!?" The Frenchman shook his head, muttering in his native tongue.

Caine smirked. "I'm a detail man. I like to know why something is the way it is, and how it got there."

"Then maybe you can answer a detail oriented question." Newkirk began, handing another part to Carter. "Why is your pop Hochstetter the way he is, and how did he get in the Gestapo?"

Caine studied the diagram, for all appearances ignoring the question. After a few minutes of silence he looked up and told Carter where the part in his hand had to go, then said carefully. "I thought I knew my father, a long time ago. But then the country turned on its ear. And now…I don't think any German truly knows who he is."

Newkirk exchanged a glance with LeBeau that Caine caught. He glanced between the two men expectantly and Newkirk finally said, "I'm sure my French mate and I would rather the Germans figure out who they are without invadin' and bombin' our countries."

The statement was mildly put, and showed incredible restraint once Caine remembered who he was talking to. Finally he said, "So do I…" and the group fell silent, speaking only when corrections or instructions had to be given.

A few hours later Caine asked, "What do you have against Hugo?"

LeBeau shrugged, pouring the last of the tea into a cup and serving it to Newkirk before he said, "I like Hugo. He wrote important things, and he had great passion, _grande patriotisme_ , but he liked to linger. The truth is, I couldn't get through his novels when I was a child so, I decided I didn't like him."

"Oh, like Fyodor Dostoyevsky. Man can that guy talk…" Carter said, absently, pronouncing the Russian writer's name with such uncharacteristic perfection that LeBeau and Newkirk froze and stared. "I had to read part of Crime and Punishment for high school. We even had to read some of it in the original Russian, and we only had one Russian English dictionary. With some of the pages missing."

With nothing left to put into the radio Carter looked up to find the others in the room staring at him, even Caine. He looked down to the radio, wiped his fingers on his overalls and said, "We done?"

Newkirk mumbled a response and LeBeau snapped out of his surprised daze, looking earnestly at the diagram book. Caine smiled softly and focused too on the book then nodded his head.

"Yah. In theory it should work. We need an antennae to get any sort of distance out of the radio, but…we should connect the power now."

The group mobilized for the moment they'd been waiting for. Newkirk sat to take first turn at the ice cream churn and LeBeau put on a pair of heavy leather gloves, prepared to yank the power cord free should anything go wrong. Carter connected the positive and negative wires from the generator and Caine stood by with a bucket of sand, should they start a fire.

Wiping his hands nervously on his overalls again Carter stepped back from the set and nodded to Newkirk.

The handle turned, but not freely and Newkirk grunted softly in surprise, mumbling, "Blimey, Carter." It took a few turns for any sign of life to come to the makeshift set, a single tiny spark leaping through specks of dust before the green light behind the indicators started to glow and sweet beautiful static rang through the speakers.

Their celebration was cut short at the sound of a frantic voice behind them all. They turned to see Fredriech, the eldest of the children in hiding, breathless and frightened poking his head up from the floor of the small room.

"Gestapo…coming…started down the road…you have to hide!" He said, in gasps, then disappeared again.

"What about the radio?" Newkirk asked, looking around him.

"We'll hide it." Carter said.

"We can't move it!" Caine argued.

"Then we'll cover it. Disguise it somehow."

"We can't do that either." Newkirk said, "Look, I'll stay up here with the radio. You get to the house and keep an eye on the colonel."

"I can't let you do that, Newkirk." Carter warned.

"Get goin' I said." Newkirk tried again, and LeBeau finally jumped forward, pushing Caine to the trap door that opened over the first ladder. "You too, Carter."

"No." Carter said, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"What about Hannah, Carter? Who's gonna look after her if you get found by the Gestapo?"

With a wince that spoke of remembered pain Carter awkwardly said, "Hannah can take care of herself."

Newkirk had to admit he had no argument there.

* * *

The compliment of soldiers that had been forced to march down the long country lane were not happy about slogging through the melting snow, but the troop truck would never have made it down the narrow private road. Their spirits improved a bit when they noticed the wintering vines and they perked up at the thought of being offered, or stealing, a bottle or two of the house's vintage.

Aldrich Werner met the group, much as he had met Carter and Private Caine the first day they arrived, standing calmly in the door of the barn with a pistol kept hidden in his hand.

"Guten Tag." The leutnant leading the group called.

Werner considered the group and nodded his head. "Guten Tag. Willkommen zu meinem Weinberg."

"You are Herr Werner." The leutnant asked, not in the least bit interested if the man owned the vineyard or not.

"Forgive my bluntness, but what do you want Herr Leutnant?"

"We are looking for escaped POWs. Five men. Two or more of them would have been wounded. Two Americans, one Frenchman, one English, and one Russian."

Werner thought for a long time, then finally nodded his head. "I had some food disappear about a week ago, after the big storm came through. There were some tracks near the southern fences. Someone had leaped the fence and tried to break into my smoke house."

The leutnant followed Werner's hand closely as the master of the farm pointed to the south, then to the brick building that was half-hidden behind a bunk house. "You investigated this?" He prompted.

Werner nodded, continuing to keep his speech pattern slow and mildly slurred. Playing the dumb hick to the letter. "Yes. There were no prisoners. Only tracks."

"We will search for ourselves. To ensure your safety." The leutnant said, directing his men to break up in groups of two and search every building on the property.

"Of course." Werner said. He had expected as much, and the hiding places that he and his people had constructed had worked once in the past. He could only hope they would work again. "But try not to break anything." He added, then walked as calmly as possible back into the barn.


	3. Chapter 3

"Where are they going now?"

"The one group headed into the second bunkhouse and they haven't come out yet. Another group just went into the smokehouse. That lieutenant is lookin' up this way but I can't see the third group."

"Weren't you watching?" Newkirk muttered, pacing a few limping steps before he went back to the narrow window out which only one of them could see at a time.

"I only have two eyes, Newkirk.." Carter bit out irritated, craning his neck and trying to make the most of the small opening and the trees and buildings that stood in his line of sight. "There's the third group. They're headin' for the house."

Newkirk turned with a huff of frustration, more upset at being helpless than at Carter's descriptions. He paced away again.

"The group from the bunkhouse are comin' out now." Carter said, sounding more like a sportscaster than a lookout. Then his voice changed, rising in pitch. "The lieutenant just pointed them this way."

Newkirk pushed hard off his good leg and covered the short distance to the hatch closing it as quietly as he could before he looked to Carter. "How close are they?"

"Fifty feet maybe." Carter responded, wishing he had a crowbar, or a hammer. Anything heavy enough to use as a weapon.

They both heard a female scream and Newkirk turned so suddenly that his leg twisted and the wound yelled at him for his carelessness. Catching himself against the wall, Newkirk held his breath, staring intently at Carter's face.

The American had gone white at the sound of the woman's voice, searching the grounds for the source, afraid that it had been Hannah. A moment later he realized it was worse. Much worse. "Oh…geez." He said, feeling his stomach drop. "They got the colonel."

Carter didn't want to see anymore, and he backed away from the window, Newkirk quickly taking his place. The scream had come from Ida and she had followed the goons out into the snow, screaming for them to let "der fremde" go. Aldrich Werner was with Ida, holding her back, though it looked more like he was holding her up.

One of the goons dragging the colonel had started calling for his superior officer when Hogan collapsed to his hands and knees, overcome with a coughing spell that left a shock of crimson in the snow. When the goons bent to drag Hogan back to his feet Newkirk could see it wasn't a gag. Blood dripped from the colonel's bottom lip and he was struggling to cough up more.

The leutnant was quick to respond to the calls and sneered at the blood on the ground before he grabbed Hogan's chin and turned his face to the afternoon light.

"Wie heisst du?" He demanded. When the colonel didn't respond he swung an open palm against the colonel's cheek sending a second spray of blood into the snow.

The colonel was struggling to breathe but still conscious, and raised his head up enough to defiantly meet the leutnant's gaze.

"Who is this man?" The leutnant demanded of Werner.

"We don't know. We found him collapsed in the pasture a few days ago. He was ill and wasn't able to tell us who he was. We took him in, and did what we could to return him to health."

"And why would you do this?" The leutnant demanded, stepping back a few feet when the colonel started to cough again.

"Not all of Germany is inhabited by monsters, Leutnant. Some of us still bear compassion toward our fellow human beings." Werner snapped, pulling Ida in closer to him. The girl was sobbing uncontrollably, either a great actress, or out of fear. Newkirk didn't know, and didn't care. The waterworks were making the two goons holding the colonel all the more uncomfortable with the situation.

"This man may be the leader of an underground unit that has been sabotaging the German war effort. Taking German lives. Hiding him is not showing compassion, but an act of treason." The officer snapped, then ordered two more of his men to grab hold of the sagging prisoner.

"You can't move this man!" Werner insisted. "He won't survive a trip anywhere, not even to the road."

"Then you will come with us to ensure that he does survive!"

"Nein!" A voice shouted, drawing every eye in the yard. Newkirk felt his teeth grind together when he spotted Caine, dressed in one of the stolen SS uniforms. He was far too small for it but it looked like LeBeau had tried his hand at some last minute tailoring. Caine had the rifle that Carter had carried into the vineyard, and stood as confidently as a man of his stature could. "This man should remain here by order of Major Hochstetter."

The leutnant, up until that time still unidentified, looked over the small SS man with an arrogant swagger to his step that Newkirk didn't like. "And who am I to believe you are?" he demanded.

" _Leutnant_ Caine Hochstetter. Herr Major's son." Caine said, sounding and looking so much like his father in that moment that there was no way anyone who had ever met Hochstetter could possibly deny it. Newkirk waited, holding his breath, desperate that against all the odds Caine's gambit would work.

His tone less cocky, the SS group leader asked, "Why have I never seen you before, Leutnant Hochstetter? Why would your father not make us aware that you were assigned to this case?"

"If you do not know, then you were not _meant_ to know, Leutnant. You of all people should know better than to question the order of a superior. The major specified that this man should be kept alive for interrogation. If moving him threatens his life then he will stay here. I will guard him, and you may return to Passau to inform Major Hochstetter."

The leutnant considered the offer again, watching Hogan, Werner and Ida in turn before he said, "I will leave some of my own men here. I understand that he is remarkably resourceful when it comes to disappearing."

"Very well. We will await your return." Caine said, a little too quickly, Newkirk thought. The leutnant had begun to turn away but he stopped after Caine spoke, eyeing the smaller man.

"I will send your regards to your father, yah?"

"Yah." Caine said, visibly nervous. "He will be glad to hear from me."

It seemed to take forever for the leutnant and three of his six men to leave. By that time the colonel was shaking so hard he might have been convulsing, and Ida begged that he be taken into the kitchen.

Two of the guards disappeared into the house with Werner and Ida leaving the last to stand awkwardly next to Caine. Caine turned so that his back was to the windmill and eventually the other guard followed suit.

"Come on, Carter." Newkirk whispered, then hustled to the trap door, lifting it again.

* * *

Inside the kitchen Miriam and Freidrich were waiting with heavy frying pans in hand. They readily clobbered the guards over the head as soon as they came through the door, iron ringing on steel helmets like great gongs until the SS men were subdued.

While the ladies struggled to dig the colonel out of the pile of bodies, Werner fished for one of the rifles and rushed back out into the yard. The sound of the clanging had drawn the attention of the third SS man, but Caine's idle attitude set him at ease just long enough for Carter to sneak out the door of the windmill. Unfortunately the hinges were old, the door squeaked and the already jumpy guard whirled around only to be caught on the side of the head by Caine's rifle butt.

The third man went down and LeBeau ran out from behind the barn door where he had been waiting with a pitchfork and he, Carter, Caine and Werner dragged the unconscious soldier inside the house, Newkirk limping in their wake as fast as he could.

The women were entirely focused on the colonel for the first few minutes, holding him on his side so that the blood he was coughing up wouldn't choke him. None of them looked hopeful until one particularly violent cough had Miriam Werner staring closely at the smears of red on the white towel.

Even as she pulled the towel away the colonel's coughing fit died and his breathing seemed a little easier. Miriam held the towel up for Ida's inspection then turned to the pale, sweating man on the floor brushing his damp hair back from his forehead, and whispering words of encouragement and congratulations to him.

Another damp cloth was produced and the matron of the house wiped the colonel's face and chest down, smiling in relief. Newkirk, Carter and Caine shifted their focus from Miriam to Ida who had stopped crying and was now staring in wonder at the cloth, one hand over her mouth. It took her a few minutes to realize that she was the focus of attention.

"What is it?" LeBeau urged and Ida tilted the cloth so that they could see the thumbnail-sized piece of shrapnel.

"It must have been in his lung. He's been trying to cough it up all this time." Ida explained, her voice indicating that this was a good thing.

None of the men felt comforted by the news, but the women were delighted and went back to their ministrations with renewed hope.

"What do we do with these men?" Werner asked, turning back to the task of disarming the three SS guards littering the floor.

"Tie 'em up for now, we'll hold them in the windmill." Newkirk said, then asked, "The rest of your people alright?"

"Yes. Hidden and safe. For now." Werner said.

* * *

They stayed on high alert the rest of the day, until a snow storm rolled in, dumping at least a foot of the white stuff in two hours. The more the snow fell the more isolated the vineyard would be, a good thing as far as Werner was concerned. Only after night fall did he spread the word that those in hiding could come up for some fresh air. They were fed, as always, in shifts, then urged to bed down for the night in their hiding places just in case.

Grumbles were met with reminders that they were still refugees, and had been able to live happier, freer lives than most, and eventually the majority of the household went to bed.

Carter had agreed to watch the three SS men along with LeBeau for the first few hours of the night, leaving Caine, Werner and Newkirk free to get some sleep, but the Englander wasn't able to rest. Too many doubts were turning in his mind, along with an aching feeling that they were running out of time.

Instead of turning in to his assigned bed Newkirk limped down the hall and knocked lightly on the door of the 'sick' room Hogan had occupied for the past few days. When the door opened he was surprised to come face to face with Miriam Werner, who put a finger to her lips then invited the Englander in.

Hogan was awake, leaning back against a half dozen pillows that propped him up in bed, carefully lifting a shaking mug of broth to his lips and taking slow gulps. The act of feeding himself was a major accomplishment, and an act of trust on the part of Miriam who hurried back to the bedside, reaching her hands out to catch the mug in case the colonel dropped it.

Beside them, laying on her side fast asleep, was Ida. She still held a compress in one hand, and an afghan had been thrown over her legs, as though she had passed out in the middle of her nursing duties.

After a few more sips Hogan let Miriam take the cup from his hands and he clung to the edge of the comforter like it was the dash board on a jeep gone out of control. It took him a few minutes to let go but when he did he gestured for Newkirk to come to the bed.

"F-feel like an old man…" Was Hogan's first comment, his voice a bare whispering rasp. He looked pale and drawn, but a sight better than he had before, and he was able to take deeper and deeper breaths reducing the threat of pneumonia. Hogan swallowed around a painful throat and asked, "Radio?"

"Works, sir." Newkirk nodded, watching as Miriam set the cup of broth on a tray on the bedside table then went to the other side of the bed to rouse Ida. "Carter's contraption did the trick, powered it up. We got a load of static before the Gestapo made their appearance. They didn't find it, sir."

Ida and Miriam quietly left the room, the half-asleep mother-to-be muttering groggily. Both men watched them leave before Hogan nodded to his man, delighted to be able to breathe without a fire in his lungs. "…did me a favor.." He said. Ironically enough the SS jostling _had_ helped his condition, even if it hadn't looked that way.

The half-hearted attempt at smiling from Newkirk caught his attention and Hogan waited for a few seconds then said, "Spit it out, Corporal."

Newkirk twisted his hands around the shaft of the cane, then shifted on the bed and said, "I've been…hoppin' mad at you ever since Gusen, Colonel and I'm-"

Hogan sighed and shook his head, starting to interrupt but Newkirk easily beat him to it. "I'm not about to apologize, Colonel, I had every right."

Surprised, Hogan paused then said, "You did." He waited then, letting the silence stretch until he had a pretty good idea of what Newkirk was hesitating to say, but he had no intention of making it easier on the Englander.

"I want out, Colonel." Newkirk said finally. "A transfer, drum me outta the service, court martial. I don't care how it's done. But I want out. Once this thing is over."

"Fine." Hogan said, the word clipped and weighted.

Newkirk had been prepared to plead his case. Wanted to plead his case. But Hogan wasn't going to give him the chance. It was a matter of betrayal, and Newkirk had crossed the line.

The part of him that wanted to remain sane, healthy and happy told him not to care. The part that had hoped that he might amount to something some day, the part that beamed like a kid at Christmas whenever the colonel gave him praise...that part felt ill.

Pushing himself stiffly to his feet, Newkirk muttered, "Night, Colonel." Then left the room as quietly as possible.


	4. Chapter 4

"Goldilocks, this is Free Bird, do you copy?"

Static filled the cold air. Sunlight shot through drifting mites of dust and wheat powder and a dozen shadows played through its beam. Barn swallows danced overhead, curious. Four pairs of eyes were settled on his back as Hogan shifted the dial and repeated, "Goldilocks, this is Freebird. Do you copy?"

"What if Hochstetter decided to set up shop outside the stalag once he figured out we were missing?" Carter offered, trying to ignore the burning in his right arm. The friction brake on the generator worked like a charm but after an hour of cranking, Andrew's arm was going numb.

Hogan sighed. "That lieutenant should've contacted Hochstetter with the news that I was here two days ago. Hell itself wouldn't keep him from showing up to collect me. Where ever he is, I think we can assume that Hochstetter is out of phone and radio contact. Goldilocks, this is Freebird. Please respond."

"If they could have they'd've dug out the radio by now. Kinch would'a done everything he could to repair it." Newkirk said, his voice subdued.

Hogan shifted the dial. "See if you can't get any more height on that antennae, Newkirk." He said without inflection, then spoke into the mic again. "Goldilocks, this is Free Bird. Goldilocks, this is Free Bird. Please respond."

Carter gritted his teeth and a second later LeBeau tapped his aching shoulder, put a gloved hand over Carter's on the handle and took over smoothly, keeping the motion of the power generating crank going without pause.

Carter stepped up and away from the generator and desperately massaged the ache out of his muscles, then retreated to the canteen of tea that was the only warm thing in the atrium of the windmill.

"Goldilocks, this is Free Bird. Goldilocks. This is Free Bird. Do you copy?"

As LeBeau settled onto the stool, the position and the strain on his back familiar, he wondered if they weren't flogging a dead horse.

Two days ago they had transmitted for only three hours before it became too dark in the unlit structure for them to be able to see the dials to know which frequency they'd hit, if they did.

The frequency finder wasn't much more than a blank knob stolen from a broken radiator. Hogan had marked it with a tic on one side, and marked the half-circle around it anytime the tic stopped on a frequency that raised anything other than static.

They'd accidentally contacted three other personal operators. They'd spoken briefly in code, learning only the code names of the other operators and keeping the conversation brief. Hogan couldn't risk giving away the location of the vineyard, and the other operators undoubtedly couldn't risk their own precious connections to the outside world.

If they weren't Gestapo, that is.

There was, however a theme. Small time operators, all probably within a fifty mile radius, and none of them were Stalag 13.

Once more, Hogan said, "Goldilocks, this is Free Bird. Goldilocks this Free Bird, do you co-"

"Free Bird, I'm havin' trouble believing my ears, but this is Goldilocks and we sure as heck copy."

The voice came through loud and clear, the operator spoke English and Hogan and the other men were silent for two seconds before a jubilant shout rose. The lights on the radio dimmed, the static waved in and out and Hogan realized moments later that he was about to lose Goldilocks.

"LeBeau, Newkirk!" He urged, his voice breaking up any time he raised it, but he was desperate that the first keep cranking and the second keep still. The voice of his staff sergeant came back through after a moment of whining and static and Hogan beamed so hard his cheeks burned.

"We've got ya back, Goldilocks. Had some celebrating to do over here. How are the eggs, Goldilocks, over?"

"We're doing some shouting over here too, Free Bird." Kinch confirmed, and Hogan could hear the smile in his voice. "All our eggs are safe, in the basket. What about yours, over?"

Hogan smirked at the grinning faces around him and nodded at the radio. "Confirm. We're a little cracked, but I've got all our eggs, plus one extra. How about the basket? Over."

The static disappeared all together and Hogan could hear Kinch make a noise of hesitation before he said, "Basket is in poor shape, Free Bird. Handle is in pieces, and the base is incomplete. Working as best we can on both." There was another pause, Kinch working on an unrehearsed coding process before he said, "The Eagle is panicked. If you have all your eggs then you know the latest. Over."

"Confirm. Heard about your firework mishap. How long do you have till the basket is ready? Over."

The silence hummed between them, but again there was no static. The men in the windmill heard a heavy sigh over the line then Kinch's voice, "Basket may never be ready, over."

"Understood." Hogan pressed his lips together, resisting the urge to swear. He'd been afraid of getting that answer and was certain he wouldn't like the next one either. "New name for old friend," he enunciated then said, "…any contact with Royal Blood? Over." Hogan winced, hoping that Kinch caught on. It was the most oblique yet obvious name that he and Newkirk could come up with for what used to be Mama Bear. Using any of the old codenames over the wire was risky given the compromise of their communications that had gotten them into this mess in the first place.

It took a while for Kinch to respond, but when he did the reply was simple. "No contact. All other hens are scattered but safe. Over."

"Any sign of the wolf, over?"

"Wolf visits frequently. Gone for now. Over."

Hochstetter? Burkhalter? New Krauts that he hadn't met yet? There was no way to know for sure.

"Confirm. Next contact, one hour? Over."

"Will do, Free Bird." There was a pause then Kinch said, "Good to hear your voice. Over and out."

Hogan carefully marked the spot where the tic had come to rest before he sat back from the radio and nodded to LeBeau. The Frenchman straightened from his hunched position over the ice cream maker and winced, rubbing his sore arm.

Carter and Newkirk had been securing the antennae behind him and were finishing the task as Hogan turned to face them. All the energy that he'd managed to build up over the past two days left him in one great rush, and he could see the same exhaustion on the faces of his men.

Emotionally and physically, for a hundred reasons they'd been pushed and yanked to their limits. For at least one of their number, that limit was stretched beyond the breaking point. But, Hogan thought, Newkirk had promised to stick with it till the job was done.

Burying his head in his hands Hogan said, "We haven't made contact with London in about two and a half weeks. The handbook for covert operations says that if radio contact has not been made after _one_ week, Mama Bear is supposed to attempt to make face to face contact if at all possible."

"And Kinchloe has not heard from London, so.." LeBeau trailed off, his eyes dancing around the small circle of spies.

"So London's given up on us." Newkirk said, keeping his eyes trained on the floor.

Hogan carefully said, "Yeah…and if Burkhalter keeps his word the German army is going to give up on Stalag 13 in about two weeks."

LeBeau crossed his arms while Carter stared down the zipper of his jacket. Caine had been quiet, feeling like an outsider even though Hogan had insisted he join them in the radio room.

Newkirk kept his eyes trained in the safest place possible, wishing he hadn't smoked his last cigarette the night before.

Hogan got to his feet and took a deep breath, relishing briefly in the delight in being able to do it.

"So…we're going to do things like we've got nothin' to lose." The colonel said, forcing a little more false hope into his voice. He waited until each of his men had met his eyes before he said. "We're going to need uniforms. Lots of uniforms. Guns, but only a little ammunition."

 _That_ got them going. Nothing like suggesting the impossible to wake a few fellas up in the morning.

"Where are we supposed to find all that?" Carter began, even as Newkirk started to protest about the 'bloody impossibility' of even getting down the road with the second dump of snow from two days before.

LeBeau was quick to add his, "Which army are we planning to outfit?"

Hogan smirked and pointed a finger at the Frenchman. "Bingo. On the mark, LeBeau. We're starting our own private army."

More shouts of protest followed the comment, but Newkirk's voice rose above the rest.

"Alright, Colonel, I suppose I can see stealing a bunch of uniforms from a supply depot perhaps. But unless you plan to brainwash a crowd of Germans into doing our bidding, I don't see where you're going to get the men."

"Come on, fellas. All of us spent a little time with them not that long ago. Newkirk, you had about a week with 'em. _I_ spent three months there."

"Gusen?" Newkirk asked, his mouth pausing on the "goo" part so long, Hogan wasn't sure the word would make it out of his mouth. "We're going to break all of those men out of that prison camp and turn them into an army."

"They're already an army," Hogan cut in, his voice taking on an edge. "We're just providing them with new uniforms and guns."

"Suppose we get this army.." Carter started, having to stop and shunt aside the voices in his head that said that 'insanity of an officer' was as good a reason as any to desert, "What are we planning to do with it…exactly?"

Hogan smiled, wrapping one arm over the other across his chest, then leaned back against the radio table and said, "Boys, we're going to liberate Stalag 13."

* * *

An hour later Hogan had his crew at the vineyard convinced that the plan had at least a glimmer of a chance of working, and all but Newkirk were off running errands.

The Brit had offered to take a turn at the crank and started it a few minutes before the hour was up. Hogan quickly had the dial set to the right frequency and sent out the call sign twice before Kinch answered.

Newkirk concentrated on the motor while Hogan worked through a coded version of his plan, repeating and clarifying until the moment Kinch got it and replied with, "You're gonna do what!?" A few seconds later he added a chaste, "Over.", before the colonel was slapped with a length of static.

Hogan smirked, then toggled the mic. "Come on, Goldilocks this is a win or lose situation. I need all the hens _and_ all the eggs gathered in one place for this to work. And we'll need some supplies if possible."

"I knew I should'a opened a Stuckey's on this corner." Kinch muttered, earning a brief laugh from the colonel. "Alright, Freebird. If we got 'em, we'll try sendin' 'em your way. What do you need? Over."

Hogan ran through the list of things that he knew to have been in the tunnels under Stalag 13 when he left, then arranged a meeting time and place for delivery if possible. "If anything changes, we'll contact again in twenty-four hours. Anything after that we'll have to play by ear. Understood? Over."

"Will do, Freebird." Came the reply. "Over and out."

With a groan Newkirk sat back from the crank, letting his sore right arm hang limp by his side.

Hogan turned, more aware than he liked of the elephant in the room. He was too tired to be angry anymore. "Looks like you're getting your wish, Newkirk. Once this caper is over, we're done." His voice was neither supportive, nor unkind; a blank unnatural tone that most people reserved for greeting strangers.

Newkirk nodded, one part of him demanding to know why the other part was so upset about it. "No, dishonorable discharge then, sir?" He tried to joke, and the effort got a brief snort from the colonel before the officer stood and walked to the hatch.

The corporal kept his back turned, waiting for Hogan to capture the last word like he always did. He heard the man's footsteps linger by the hatch, then the staccato _tap tap_ of his descent down the ladder.

The Englander pushed a heavy sigh out of his lungs and eyed the cane that leaned against the opposite wall. Pain, pain everywhere, and not a ruddy thing he could do to avoid it. "Cor blimey, I need a fag."


	5. Chapter 5

In two days Hochstetter's world had been turned on its ear, then returned to its rightful place, then spun three-hundred-and-sixty degrees.

It had begun with a two day interrogation. Just the sort of intense questioning that he had planned to enjoy putting Robert Hogan through. But this was at the hands of men of inferior rank and ability, and at the behest of Hochstetter's superiors. It was laughable and humiliating at the same time. An unending parade of the amateur hour until a single phone call put it to a stop.

Unshaved, without sleep for seventy-two hours and wearing a wrinkled, borrowed uniform Hochstetter had been marched back to his office by the same guards that had lead him to Herr Schimmer's office. Only this time Herr Schimmer was in the _major's_ office to receive him, and he was smiling.

Hochstetter was allowed to stand at his desk with his steepled fingers propping him up, which was just as well. He would have fallen over without that gracious support. Schimmer babbled on about Hochstetter's dedication and attention to detail, not apologizing for the heinous crime against the major's person, but expressing the complete reversal of the charges of suspicion and treason.

When Hochstetter finally found the will power to raise his head and meet Schimmer's gaze the officer snapped into a salute, that was ignored, and said, "You've got your man!"

Confused Hochstetter's blurry vision finally caught sight of the pile of notes on his desk. One hand reaching for the stack he used the other to toss a salute and managed to say, "Thank you, sir."

Schimmer hustled quickly out of the office, as uncomfortable in it's less than glamorous confines as he was in the presence of a dangerous man that he had just deeply wronged.

The notes were phone messages taken by the switch board. The top few were reports of recent thefts from supply depots scattered around the country.

The next ten were from Leutnant Klendein. He had located a man that fit Hogan's description at a vineyard twenty-seven kilometers north of Passau. The POW's condition had forced Klendein to leave the man at the vineyard, but he was in good care and-

The paper tore in half in his hands and Hochstetter sat down hard on the floor, taking the stack of papers with him. He didn't need to repair the note to see the name printed there.

A Leutnant Hochstetter had reported to Klendein, claiming he had been sent by the major to see to it that Hogan arrived in Berlin in good health.

Hochstetter couldn't explain it. Logically, scientifically it made no sense, but seeing betrayal of all that his son had chosen to stand for written out on paper tore something from his chest that he hadn't expected to be there.

Hochstetter gathered the other notes in his fists, like they were fallen leaves and read each one carefully. Most of the rest of them were the old messages from his wife.

Concern. "Where are you?" "Why haven't you answered?"

Suspiscion. "If there is someone else…" "If you are unhappy…"

Anger. "What do you expect us to think?" "Who would leave his wife and daughter on her birthday?"

Despair. "I cannot understand why you do not reply. The department has said nothing of your status." "I am taking Frieda to my mother's."

Then the follow up messages from Leutnant Klendein, repetitions of the news that had essentially won Hochstetter his freedom. Klendein was unable to get to the vineyard because of road conditions, and was awaiting his orders. Hogan was at the vineyard.

Hogan. And his son.

All he ever wanted…

When he was a boy, all that Wolfgang Hochstetter wanted was his own phonograph. Not to play records, or to listen to his own voice on a silly recording tube, but to take it apart, rebuild it, and see if he could make it work again.

When he was twenty-one, married, and expecting a child that never made it into the world, Hochstetter had saved up the money to buy the phonograph, intent on getting it as a present for his new family.

But his family did not begin then. And the phonograph remained in the store window until a rich man bought it.

Then 'Olf was born, and Wolfgang began to realize that the far more fascinating machine to disassemble and discover was the human mind. He was enraptured as he watched his son explore, learn, surmise, conclude, venture.

The boy was smart like his mother, but short like his father. He was bullied but his spirit was indomitable. He was honest and true like his father, but imaginative and free-spirited like his mother, and the day he declared that he wanted to be a pilot, Hochstetter had thought, 'Nothing else could be more perfect.'

Then the polyteknickum called to inform them that their son had disappeared. He had neither announced his departure to his flatmates, nor removed his name from the roll. He was simply gone.

Hochstetter knew then, he _knew_ that certain…people…were being excommunicated, rounded up, displaced…disappeared. It didn't matter if you were a gypsy, or a homosexual, or a black, or a Jew. If you _looked_ disloyal, you were gone.

Before his son had begun his university education Hochstetter had seen it coming and worked his way into the secret police. The better to appear loyal. The better to protect his family from the rising tide of paranoia and fear.

The better to protect Freida, who was born slower than her brother. Different from her brother, and from the other children on the block. Different enough that if you spent a few days in her presence you would know, but not so different that you could tell just by glancing at her.

Different enough that 'Olf's disappearance sent her into a downward spiral that she had remained in ever since.

Was it worth it? Hochstetter asked himself the question he had been asking endlessly over the past forty-eight hours.

Was it worth it to keep up the charade? To push his heroic son into capitulation, his daughter further into catatonic depression, his wife out of his life forever? Could he still lie to himself and say that he was protecting them by remaining loyal to a madman?

Somewhere…

Hochstetter burst into movement scrambling through the pile of scattered and crumpled notes trying to find the first one that Leutnant Klendien had sent him. The one with the name of the vineyard on it.

When he found it he held it like it was ancient silk, carrying it delicately to the map of Germany hanging on the wall and finding the approximate location of the farm. His hand moved automatically to the side where he kept flags attached to pins. He selected the closest one and was prepared to jab it deep into the cork, but stopped himself.

No…no there mustn't be any trace. If anything, he had to send them somewhere else. Somewhere very far away…

Memories flashed across his mind's eye. Courting his wife. Trips into the country. Wine country. The opposite side of the map.

Hochstetter jabbed in one pin, then another, and another, barely stopping himself at six. Mustn't make it too obvious.

Now…what next?

"What…would Hogan do?" Hochstetter heard himself say, then shook his head. This was insanity. The insanity that affected and tortured all that came into contact with Robert Hogan. For once, Hochstetter found himself enjoying it.

* * *

Three days. In just three days they had managed to pull together six hundred grenades, 214 Tokarevs, 15 Lugers, 12 hunting rifles, 225 Russian uniforms, three German uniforms, one thousand counterfeit Marks, ammunition…

"…uh and a partridge and a pear tree, sir." Newkirk announced with a bright grin on his face as he reached the end of the list.

The Tokarevs and the uniforms had come by airdrop, courtesy of the Russian Air Force and a rogue pilot friend of Caine's. The exhausting chain of radio contacts and pick up and drop off points had set even Hogan's head to spinning, but miraculously every crate had ended up in the field behind the windmill.

The grenades and Lugers had been stolen by Hogan's own crew, and by a few scattered undercover operations that had been advised through Kinchloe. Their arrivals had been a constant source of rude awakenings through the second night, but it had been worth it.

Half the grenades were armed, and the other half were blanks used for war games, but under Carter's careful direction, a crew of ten brave souls worked in one hour shifts transferring half the powder from each live grenade, to a dud. This reduced the blasting power, but maintained most of the 'bang' as Carter put it.

LeBeau had been stationed in the kitchen where he and the other bakers in the house were furiously creating a week's worth of rations for the two hundred plus men they were expecting to have to feed. Hogan had given Werner a chance to say, 'yay' or 'nay' to the plan as it would seriously deplete the stores he had set aside for his own people.

This had led to a lengthy discussion that ended with Werner asking if Hogan would consider taking anyone willing to risk it with him.

Hogan put the same question to his men an hour later, all of them aware that this mission was going to be their last, and their most dangerous.

"Let me remind you, that you're trained soldiers. So are the men in Gusen. We're talking about adding untrained civilians to the mix. That could mean disaster. And they're safe, if less comfortable here."

In the end the men agreed, unanimously, that if the men and women were told the straight facts and still agreed to take the risk, they would do nothing to stop them.

That had left Hogan and Newkirk in charge of training the twelve men and boys, and two women, in the art of soldierly combat.

Up until one of the women became a woman and an infant boy.

Hadrian Robert Werner was born healthy and screaming and placed in the arms of his exhausted mother, bright pink with rage at the world.

Attending nurse Newkirk encouraged the boy to rage on while he could. "Before the world tries shuttin' you up, little love."

With only a week and a half left to get his men out of Stalag 13 before the Luftwaffe moved them, there wasn't much time for Hogan to celebrate the new life, though he was flattered that the child bore his name.

Once the food preparations were nearing completion he had stolen LeBeau and directed the Frenchman's hands toward an operation that Hogan had overlooked in the beginning excitement.

"Transportation…" The Frenchman said staring at the farm truck, and the dented, three-wheeled wreck that had been the staff car they'd arrived in.

"Yeah…where's a train when you need one?" Hogan said, silently berating himself for so crucial an oversight.

The guns and uniforms alone weighed more than the farm truck was likely to put up with.

Those that were able to do so had been working at shoveling out a path on the long country lane that lead to the main road, but Hogan knew he couldn't very well force march his 'men' to Gusen.

LeBeau had taken two steps toward the hood of the farm truck when an alarm sounded in the form of surprised shouts. A truck, a big German military truck, had come to a halt at the end of the country lane and a man in German uniform was getting out. Marching down the road.

Some of the children who had managed to get their shovels out that far claimed that he was a general. Others said major or lieutenant. Some said SS, some Luftwaffe. Some proclaimed that he was with a Panzer division.

Caine, who had stayed in the now properly tailored uniform immediately took his place as 'guard' outside the windmill, but through the barn door Hogan could tell he was quaking. Carter quickly scrambled into place beside him, pulling on his helmet and settling his gun, also dressed in uniform.

They stood at attention, waiting as the small dark figure got closer, but not much bigger.

Then Hogan swore under his breath, feeling his own knees threaten to go weak. "It's Hochstetter."


	6. Chapter 6

"LeBeau, you stay here. Everybody stays under cover." Hogan snapped, his voice hard despite the damage that days of coughing up shrapnel had done. "Nobody makes any exceptions. What happens, happens. The goal is the men at Gusen, and then Stalag 13. You got it?"

When the Frenchman didn't respond, Hogan jerked his head over his shoulder to demand an answer only to find that he was alone in the barn. Then a shower of hay hit his shoulder and he looked up to see the small man scrambling across the hayloft with one of the Tokerav's in his hands.

"LEBEAU!" Hogan whispered as loud as he could manage, finally catching the determined and furious gaze of the one man French army. "DON'T SHOOT!" The colonel emphasized, as firmly as he could before he took a breath to brace himself. "Doesn't anybody listen to officers anymore..?" He wondered before he stepped out into the snow.

Hochstetter had just entered the clearing formed between the first bunkhouse and the barn, slowing to a halt as he studied the two SS men on duty. When Hogan stepped into the open the major's attention was solely on him.

"Colonel Hogan, you are…in better health than I was lead to believe."

"Your man missed a few important details." Hogan answered. He could feel the heat coming from LeBeau up in the loft. He caught a glimpse of Newkirk, armed and ready in an upstairs window of the house, and knew that Werner had been watching the radio in the second story of the windmill. He would be armed as well.

Killing Hochstetter would not be the way to make his plans happen, though. Hogan cleared his throat and deliberately looked towards a few of his men's hiding spots before he said, "It wasn't wise to come alone."

The major followed his gaze, but instead of anger, fear or alarm, Hogan saw mild amusement, concern and acceptance on the Gestapo man's face.

"No," He said, "It is never wise to be in the presence of Robert Hogan, alone."

Then Hochstetter's eyes fell on the face of his son. The uniform, yes. The gun, yes. But the gun wasn't pointed at Hogan, it was pointed at the major.

The farm wasn't in the control of the Gestapo, it was in Hogan's control.

Hochstetter fought the jubilant smile, an awkward grimace making its way onto his face that barely contained his relief.

No, his son had not been beaten. He was just a better liar than Hochstetter could ever have hoped to have been.

Taking in a breath that seemed to cleanse him from head to foot Hochstetter said, "Hogan, what I have to say will probably sound like the ramblings of a mad man. Or you may choose to believe that it is a trap, or the result of some sort of brain washing, but I assure you…I am sincere.

"I have a truck, waiting at the end of the road. I intend to use it to collect you, and your men, and take them to Stalag 13 where I will collect the rest of your staff. Then…God willing, I will take them to wherever you wish to go.

"On one condition…"

None of them had noticed the fur bundled pair slogging down the road. The focus had been on Hochstetter, the man that had been an undeniable threat from the first day they had crossed paths. They were trained to spot uniforms and the glint of guns. Not furs and poorly chosen high heeled shoes.

Carter and Caine noticed the pair of women first, snapping their guns up out of instinct before Caine took a second look. Hogan heard a muttered word come out of the young private's mouth before he dislodged his helmet and rushed down the hill, past Hochstetter and into the surprised arms of the older of the two women.

Suddenly Hochstetter didn't matter anymore as every armed man on the farm watched a boy reunited with his family. The major stood apart, trembling as all that remained of his composure fell to his feet in shattered pieces.

Mrs. Julia Hochstetter's face was awash with tears and rapture, her arms so tightly enclosing Caine that he disappeared behind the fur coat. His sister Freida stood beside the pair, staring dumbfounded, but interested, her hands reaching out for the figure hiding in the furry arms.

Once he was able to break free Caine met Freida's haunting, gaunt face, struggling to take in what his sister had become. What he blamed himself for having done, unthinking.

Then she smiled. In a voice that he had heard her use a hundred times, any time they had gone together to see a bootleg film at a friend's flat, Freida greeted him with a perfect English accent. "Hello 'Olf, darling. How lovely to see you again!" It was a joke, code, a secret message between brother and sister.

A phrase that neither of Frieda's parents had heard her say since her brother's disappearance.

Hearing it made Julia seek out her husband, to make certain that he had heard it too. She saw him smile, briefly. But it was there, and she hugged her children close to her, knowing that she was existing in a miracle.

"Miriam." Hogan's voice rose above the relatively silent confusion and the matron of the house appeared in the doorway, also armed. "Werner, these people are refugees. And they're coming…. _with_ us…" Hogan enunciated loudly, before he turned to Hochstetter.

"Stay right here, until I get back. I'll get your wife and daughter settled and _then_ we'll talk."

Hochstetter didn't respond, beyond dropping his gaze to the snow and working at reeling the wild emotions back into check. Hogan didn't trust him, shouldn't trust him, _couldn't_ trust him. Not yet. But he was a man who knew how to think on his feet, and if that meant that the major's family would be safe in the end, nothing else mattered.

Hogan reached Miriam at about the same time as Aldrich Werner and dropped his volume to a hurried whisper. "I don't have time to explain, and I hate to drop more in your laps than I already have, but I can promise you that I won't be leaving these people with you. For the time being they could use some food and a place to warm up."

Miriam nodded vigorously, not bothering to remind the colonel that she wasn't a barbarian given to leaving needy people in the cold.

"Aldrich, I'm going to have to have a conversation with this man, and as much as my gut is telling me it may end with me dead, I need you to keep your men, _and_ my men in check. Keep a _very_ close eye on that truck, and on the south pasture just in case this is a diversion, and if it all goes to hell…"

"Blast away…" Werner said, in confident English.

Hogan reached out a hand to clap the man on the shoulder and winced a little. "Maybe you should spend a little less time with Carter."

Werner favored him with a brief grin before moving with his wife to guide Julia and Freida Hochstetter into the house. Hogan waited until Werner had coaxed Newkirk away from the bedroom window before he turned to Hochstetter and nodded down the long country lane.

"Let's take a look at this truck, shall we."

* * *

"He's makin' a mistake."

"Don't you think he knows that?"

"The man sent the lot of us to blow up a convent, without carin' one bit who was in it. Just because he brings his women along this time, and sets up a real convincin' family reunion." Newkirk's voice had risen in volume enough to draw Caine's attention. The smaller man rose, from his seat by the hearth and quietly excused himself before walking into the front room of the house and shutting the door.

"If you're going to insult my father, please do it so that my mother and sister can not hear." Caine snapped, his voice in a harsh whisper that he hoped the others would emulate. "Freida is not well, and my mother can hardly be expected to cope with-"

"To cope?!" Newkirk demanded, his face flashing with a spring storm's ferocity. "You can take your family squabbles and stuff it down your schisse-hole, Fritz. Your pop is about to murder the govener and I won't-"

Newkirk cut himself off and brushed past the half-hearted attempt at restraint that Carter threw up.

On his way out the kitchen door, Newkirk picked up the rifle that Caine had left leaning, and checked the chamber and the firing pin as he strode out into the clearing.

Caine chased after him, followed by Carter and LeBeau, who were both shouting for him to stop, but with half the fervor they should have used.

The limp became more pronounced as Newkirk strode across the clearing, but he couldn't feel the pain anymore. It didn't matter anyway. All Newkirk could see were the frightened faces of the seven nuns that had lived with them in Stalag 13 for a short while. Each of them robbed of their homes because of the selfishness of one Gestapo man.

All he could see were his relatives. Living in terror, even the rare charms of the streets of London gone because this retched nation had decided to put their eggs in Hitler's basket and turn a blind eye.

Newkirk could only see the two hundred some men, probably more than that now, stuck in Gusen camp, starving to death in a German rat hole, instead of at least having the pleasure of starving to death in their own country. A country that they were going to die for. And not a heroic death, but a slow, horrible, agonizing death.

The sort of death that Hochstetter deserved, and every other man that so much as raised his arm to salute that nut in Berlin.

Newkirk had cocked the gun and taken the first shot before he'd even made the decision to kill Hochstetter.

The two men fifty yards ahead of him dove for the sides of the country lane, and Newkirk grunted in frustration, not sure why his shot had missed but perfectly willing to try again. Stalking closer to where he had last seen the major, Newkirk cranked another round into the chamber and fired again once he saw a corner of the dark black coat.

This time realization began to sink in, but it didn't matter because Hochstetter was angry. He was on his feet, and had a pistol pointed at Newkirk, and it looked exactly like the one the major had used to shoot him once before.

"Wait!" Hogan screamed, struggling to climb out the ditched, drenched in snow. He'd realized at about the same moment that Newkirk had, "They're blanks! The gun is loaded with blanks!" He insisted, his voice cracking like a pre-teen the louder he got.

Hochstetter jerked a glance his way, looking desperate and terrified and outraged.

Newkirk had lowered the gun, letting it drop and going to his knees in the snow. He looked submissive but in his mind he didn't care anymore. Shot for firing on a Gestapo man with blanks seemed like the perfect way for someone like him to leave the world.

Hochstetter was coming toward him, stomping through the snow with short, determined steps until the cold muzzle of the gun rested against Newkirk's forehead. He was seething like a bull in heat, unaware of the rapid footsteps of Caine jogging toward him.

Unaware of Hogan calling his name. Unaware of everything up until Hogan stepped between the major and his man and pushed the gun away.

The moment the pistol was pointing at nothing but dirt Caine slid to a halt in the snow and stood gasping, his own rifle harmlessly staring at the ground.

Newkirk sat back on his heels and closed his eyes, breathing again. He didn't remember _not_ breathing.

Hogan jerked Hochstetter around, pointing him back toward the truck as if the whole thing hadn't happened.

He walked with the major long enough to finish their conversation, not taking more than two or three minutes, before he turned back around.

Hochstetter continued to the truck, climbing in and eventually maneuvering it so that he could point it down the country lane.

Hogan marched with a purpose back towards the farm, stopping only long enough to grit his teeth and order Newkirk to his feet.

Back in the clearing Hogan's lungs had begun to burn. Unused to the volume he'd been using and rapid intake of cold air he was losing steam fast, but he didn't have time for it. "Caine, LeBeau, Carter." He snapped rapidly, issuing orders for his men to begin loading guns, uniforms, supplies and personel as soon as the major and the truck entered the clearing.

He didn't have to tell Newkirk to go with him. The Brit followed on his own, eyes still blazing hot and hard.

Hogan's only thought was that he wished he had gloves as he rounded the windmill. Newkirk was two steps behind, at the perfect distance for the roundhouse that Hogan swung and landed on the man's jaw. Every remaining ounce of power that Hogan had left went into that punch and Newkirk went with it, splatting in the wet snow.

The punch hurt him just about as bad as it must have hurt the Englander, but Hogan was able to force his hand closed and open, so he ignored it.

When Newkirk picked himself up his lip was bloodied and his jaw already swelling. He eyed the colonel with a feral, streetwise sort of looseness that Hogan had never seen in the man. It made the Englander look taller somehow, and way more dangerous.

Hogan had never disrespected the man, but he _had_ underestimated him this time, and he backed up one step as Newkirk rolled his shoulders and brought his fists to bear.


	7. Chapter 7

Before the Englander threw a punch Hogan barked, "Alright, Newkirk, hold it!"

A feral smirk broke on the Brit's face and he gave a mock salute before he backed off a few feet and said, "Right, sir. Shall we go to our proper corners then, sir?"

Hogan ignored the sarcasm and said, "You've been ready to blow since Gusen. I can't take a man on a job that I can't rely on."

"In that case, sir, I shall take my leave." Newkirk quipped angrily then turned to walk away.

"Get back here, Corporal."

Despite himself Newkirk felt his legs grind to a halt and he stood with his shoulders stiffening.

"We're gonna settle this here and now. All out fight, no holds barred, end all. If you win by a knock out, you're free to go. We'll leave you with a uniform and a weapon, some cash and food and you're on your own."

Surprised, Newkirk turned and faced the colonel, certain he knew the answer even as he asked, "And if you should win?"

"You stay. You follow my plan and every order to the letter, and leave Hochstetter and his family alone."

Peter touched his fingers to his swelling lip again, glancing at the blood that was beginning to dry, considering the precipice that he was standing on and suddenly afraid to make the leap.

If he won he'd be out, one part of him argued. He'd be free of this worrying about his chums business, and he'd have only himself to worry about. All the birds he could handle. He'd be rolling in dough in no time, and he could disappear into Switzerland until the war ended. It was hopeful and idealistic and absolute rubbish.

Before he could respond he caught movement out of the corner of his eye and watched as LeBeau and Carter rounded the corner of the windmill, looking frantic up until they realized that Hogan and Newkirk were both still standing.

Hogan had been in the process of pulling off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves, playing nonchalance when all he could think was how idiotic it had been to let his anger take over and punch Newkirk in the first place. He wasn't entirely sure he could win a fight against the street wise Englander.

All he knew was that he couldn't do the job, any job, without Newkirk as part of the team.

Peter could feel the panic and the anger building up again. The same panic that had pushed him to shoot at the German major. It stemmed from the ache in his leg and boiled to the top of his head and before he had even formally agreed Newkirk was jerking his own jacket off and tossing his cap to Carter.

"Alright, Colonel, you've got yourself a deal." Newkirk said. He took two steps then swung from the right, high and wide. A simple lob that any man could duck. Hogan recognized it as a feint a second too late and took a solid hit to the stomach, getting his fists under his chin in time to take some of the impact out of the upper cut that followed.

The blow threw him back non-the-less and Hogan hit the ground, stunned, his arms windmilling behind him.

Newkirk stepped back a pace, waiting as the colonel shook his head and got back to his feet. He smirked in response to the surprised look that Hogan gave him, and waited as the colonel stepped back into the circle, telegraphing a few feints before stepping back again.

He'd been trained at some point in his life, Newkirk thought, probably joined a boxing team in his NCO days. It showed in the colonel's form, but it had been a long time.

The next exchange of punches ended with Newkirk's upper lip swelling and bloody, and the colonel once more shaking his head, bells starting to ring in his ears.

Both men were breathing heavily by then, puffs of air crystallizing in the cold. The ground beneath them slowly churning into a slushy mud making it harder and harder to stay upright.

When Hogan stepped again into the box with intent, Newkirk couldn't read where the next punch was coming from. The Brit struck out blindly anyway with a left-right combination that knocked the colonel to the ground, then paced back confused.

Hogan took a little longer to get up, swaying with his back to his opponent before he turned and put his fists up again. When Newkirk chose to hang back and wait for him to recover, the colonel egged him on, beckoning him closer with a weak smirk on his face.

He was asking for punishment and Newkirk gave it to him, reluctantly this time, paying more attention to the body than the face until the colonel went down in the slush, bent double at the waist.

Newkirk's arms were starting to burn, his lungs demanding more oxygen than was available. He was tiring out and the colonel was red faced and gasping on the ground. But he was still conscious, and Hogan had declared the fight would only end by a knock out.

One last punch was all it would take to put the colonel out. One punch and Newkirk could be done with this war, with money in his pocket. One punch and Newkirk would never be able to look at his own face in a mirror again. Newkirk couldn't bring himself to do it.

Against the desire of every man watching Hogan spent a few more seconds on the ground then started working his way up to his knees. There weren't any structures handy so Hogan grabbed hold of Newkirk's arm and used his own opponent as a support, dragging himself to his feet.

Newkirk braced the man while Hogan was regaining his balance, ready to concede the fight but the colonel stepped back an appropriate couple of feet and raised his fists, nodding for Newkirk to continue.

"Colonel…" Newkirk protested.

"Come on, come on…" Hogan wheezed, his tongue suddenly swollen in his mouth and his throat dry. He was forced to maintain a wide stance to keep from falling over, and couldn't have thrown a punch if he wanted to.

Newkirk shook his head once more then dropped his fists. "You're done in, Colonel."

"No I'm not, Newkirk. Come on and fight."

"Colonel-"

"Fight!"

For a second Hogan thought he would do it. Newkirk's face had solidified into a mask, his fist had clenched and he'd drawn his arm back with just enough force to launch the straight punch that would knock the colonel out for good.

Hogan waited, swaying. His diaphragm had begun to seize up, like a massive charlie-horse that made it impossibly painful just to breathe.

But the Englander dropped his fists, his arms like lead, and stepped in in time to catch the colonel before he swayed too far, guiding the man to the sturdy side wall of the windmill, where Hogan leaned gratefully with one hand against the mill and the other arm wrapped around his chest.

Turning so that his back was against the structure Hogan slid down until his legs were supported by the concrete base of the mill and tried to catch his breath, fingers delicately probing his battered rib cage.

Carter and LeBeau quietly took seats flanking the colonel and after a moment Newkirk sat as well, groaning as he let his throbbing head come to rest in his hands.

A minute later he got it. His head came up, eyes unfocused in the distance, lips slightly pursed as the pieces came together in his mind. "You bloody, scheming, devious, manipulative..." With each adjective Newkirk drew the attention of one of his mates until all three were staring at him, waiting for the point. "You ruddy lost on purpose."

Carter's brows furrowed and his head bounced back and forth between Newkirk and Hogan, before he scratched his head in thought.

LeBeau's face broke into a grin as he studied the colonel's face, watching as the officer leaned back against the windmill with a soft grimace and a sigh.

A brief smile came to his face before he said, "I didn't lose."

* * *

The truck and the repaired staff car were ready to pull away from the farm around dusk. The loading hadn't taken long, but the realization that some of the civilians going with the POWs were leaving for good, possibly destined for England or even America, meant a flood of ever lengthening goodbyes and panicked packing of items that in the end remained at the Werner vineyard. The food, the guns and the uniforms were packed in the center of the oversized troop truck that Hochstetter had brought.

The radio was removed from the top of the windmill and it, and the ice cream churn, ended up in the boot of the staff car. Newkirk, Carter and Hogan donned SS officer uniforms. Newkirk and Carter would drive the truck, and Hogan and Hochstetter would ride in the back of the staff car. LeBeau and Caine were dressed as privates. Caine was assigned as a 'guard' in the back of the troop truck and LeBeau was to drive the car.

"And our destination, Colonel?" Newkirk asked staring at the map spread over the hood of the black sedan. Hogan pointed to a spot marked on the map just north of Linz, Austria. "The farm, north of Gusen. If we get separated we can rendezvous there. We'll have to get a look at the camp before we make anymore decisions, so the farm will be a good place to rest up. There won't be any stops between here and there folks..." Hogan said, lifting his voice so that the civilians in the back of the truck could hear him.

"We're all making sacrifices starting now. If you have a medical emergency, speak to one of your guards but remember, play your part at all times. We never know who may challenge us or why." Hogan looked to his men, and received nods of understanding. This wasn't old hat necessarily but they looked confident, if mildly terrified. "Alright, good luck."

The group broke up and the caravan started forward, the staff car in the lead with the troop truck hanging back a few car lengths. The snow was deep and difficult to get through until they reached the main road that would take them south to Passau. Hogan couldn't relax until they had made it across the border, and it took everything in his power not to ride facing backwards.

The fight with Newkirk had left him with a pounding headache, and bruised torso, and he could only hope the Englander was just as uncomfortable, even if Hogan had been the one to start it. The injuries were visible however, and might require some explanation. A hundred other things could go wrong, in addition to that little hiccup and he was on edge.

Hochstetter seemed just as jumpy up until he took in a breath and turned, prepared to ask Hogan a question.

"Don't ask me about the details Hochstetter, because I don't know yet." Hogan interrupted, and Hochstetter settled back.

The city of Passau loomed ahead, the evening rush hour once more slowing traffic. It felt like his _first_ trip to Gusen all over again, only this time Hogan was in a different uniform and had no intention of trying to make a break for it.

The truck went across the border first using the passes that Hochstetter had brought to get Hogan and his men out of Germany. They would have to come up with more for the return trip, but Hogan already had a fledgling plan for that. Once it had passed through the manually operated gates the truck pulled to the side of the road and the guard turned his attention to the staff car.

Hogan was wearing a hauptmann's uniform, and immediately deferred the guard's questions to the major, stepping out of the vehicle and mumbling something about checking on the truck. Hochstetter was nervous but he acknowledged Hogan off-hand, before starting a brief conversation with the guard while the man looked over their papers.

The guard at the gate didn't challenge Hogan in any way, and the colonel stepped up on the tailgate of the truck briefly to ask if everyone was ok, before moving around to the driver's side.

"Any problems?"

"None, sir." Came Newkirk's response, Carter echoing the same quietly.

"We shouldn't have any more stops between here and the farm. Once we're through Linz I want to stop, crank up the radio and see if we can't reach Herr Limler before we get there. Give him some idea that we're coming."

"Right, sir." Newkirk acknowledged, watching the traffic coming in the opposite direction, and the still stalled staff car at the gate.

Hogan stepped down, looking back to the gate, then stepped back up again when Newkirk said, "Oh, sir."

"Yeah, Newkirk?"

"Somebody hit you?" The Brit asked, smirking and making a vague motion towards the colonel's battered face. Hogan barely acknowledged the jibe with a smirk.

"Funny, Newkirk." He said, stepping down and heading back for the staff car as it finally rolled through the gate. "Very funny."

The rest of the trip went smoothly. Night had fallen early at around 1715, and the vehicles were ignored as they passed through town after town. Hogan found himself almost drifting off a few times, and even caught LeBeau nodding at the wheel. By the time they stopped it was nearly 1900. The going had been slow with lesser traveled roads clogged with snow, but they pulled off the road a mile from the farm and Carter, LeBeau and a stiff Hogan popped the boot of the staff car and cranked the radio to life.

The farmer had a radio, but used it sparingly and hadn't divulged any special call sign or code name to Hogan while they'd been associated. A standard call out didn't raise any response and after five minutes of trying Hogan shook his head and Carter let the generator grind to a halt. For a few minutes he stood thinking, consulting his watch.

"Alright...Carter get Newkirk and Caine back here. We've got a lot to do tonight."

"How are we going to contact that farmer?" Le Beau asked.

"Who's the least German looking person we have?" Hogan asked, then looked steadily at the small Frenchman.

LeBeau thought for a moment, taking in a breath to respond before he realized that Hogan hadn't looked anywhere else but at him after he'd asked the question. Louie groaned, then quietly said, "I volunteer?"


	8. Chapter 8

After dropping LeBeau, Mrs. Julia Hochstetter, Freida Hochstetter and Hannah at the Limler farm, Newkirk and Carter took the remaining male civilians and the truck down the road, following Hogan and Hochstetter in the staff car. The route they took was convoluted and confusing but it got them into the thick of a wooded patch a hundred feet from a small shack.

The building wasn't more than twenty by twenty feet, and looked abandoned but for a thin line of smoke coming from the smoke stack. When Hogan spotted the smoke he felt some of the pressure in his chest release. If the smoke was there, then the prisoners in the officer's barracks at Gusen still had their secret stove. If they still had the stove, they still had the tunnels and the tunnels were the key to the whole operation.

"Alright Newkirk and Carter, go through to the officer's barracks and get Poitkin and Nestor out h-"

"N-nestor.." Newkirk interrupted shoving his hand high above his head then outlining a shape that might have been a bulldozer or a small tank. "Nestor?"

"Yeah, Nestor." Hogan said impatiently. "Get them out here on the double."

"Got it." As Carter and Newkirk disappeared into the shack and down the ladder to the tunnel, Hochstetter stepped a foot through the door staring bewildered at what he could only assume was the tip of the iceberg that Hogan had created in the time he'd been imprisoned at Gusen.

Hogan was like a termite or a cockroach. Always expanding his territory and impossible to kill.

"I'd love to show you around the old place but we aren't going to have time." Hogan said, guessing at what was going through Hochstetter's mind.

"General Burkhalter's-"

Hogan nodded. "He may decide to jump the gun and be rid of Klink as fast as possible, and that could mean scattering my men all over Germany. If you're going to live up to your promise we've got to do everything we can tonight."

"And my wife, and Frieda."

"They'll be safe. They'll get passage to London and I'll make sure they have something in the way of temporary housing."

Hochstetter nodded with a sigh of gratitude that didn't quite make it out of his mouth as a verbal, 'Thank you'. He wasn't sure he could say as much until he knew his wife and daughter were safe.

"How-" Hochstetter began, then he shook his head and tightly closed his lips together. An unspoken agreement had been arranged between himself and the American. They weren't friends, but for the moment they had a common goal. Trust was a major issue but the less Hochstetter knew about the details, the more comfortable Hogan seemed to be with having the Gestapo man and his family along. He would find out when he found out, and with the volume of reports that Hochstetter had in his office cataloguing the various wild schemes he had attributed to Hogan, Hochstetter wasn't sure that he wanted to know everything.

"As soon as I have things moving here, you and I are going to take the rest of the civilians and the truck into camp. We'll harass the commandant for a bit, give these guys time to get ready. Then when the noise starts, we'll be in charge of emptying the hospital."

Hochstetter nodded, stifling the dozen or so questions that popped into his mind as soon as the colonel fell silent.

"For now," Hogan added. "I think it'd be best if you wait by the staff car. If anybody happens across the vehicles without an officer nearby we'll raise more flags than we can handle."

Moments after Hochstetter had stomped away through the snow there was the shuffle of footsteps echoing from the mouth of the tunnel and the ladder trembled, a giant head looming up from the darkened depths.

A smile broke across Hogan's face, distorting a little when it met some of the swelling. "Nestor!"

"Colonel Hogan." The giant man responded equally pleased, and as he ducked out of the shack he brought a meatloaf-sized hand to his temple in salute then pulled the colonel in for a bone crushing hug. "It is good to see you." Nestor said, his basso voice vibrating against Hogan's head.

By the time he was able to breathe Lieutenant Igor Piotkin had climbed the ladder and treated Hogan to another firm, back slapping hug that Hogan did his best to weather.

Newkirk climbed the ladder next and Carter hung onto the top rung, looking a little shy.

Hogan met the Brit's eyes and caught the sympathetic wince. Newkirk must have been treated to the hugging routine too, and Carter looked like he was afraid he'd be next. Once the greetings were out of the way Hogan cut to the chase, stifling any questions. "We've got to organize fast and the details are going to matter. Lt. Piotkin, how about you get me up to speed."

To this command the Russian officer all but beamed and snapped a salute before he began his report, "The tunnel to Zoo is finish and very good tunnel. Men in Barracks three have made civilian clothes out of material requisitioned for making mattress. This we exchange with political prisoner for information from town."

Newkirk's eyebrows went up and he caught the same surprised and pleased look on the colonel's face. Not only were operations still going on, but Piotkin had expanded. "We have emergency tunnel started, going to political prisoner barrack. Not completed. Three men are scheduled to die tonight, and will go out in morning." He continued, referring to the method by which the prisoner's regularly escaped without rousing suspicions.

The body's were usually represented by sacks of dirt sewn into extra material requisitioned for just that purpose. The dirt was 'buried' behind the barracks in a mass 'grave'.

"Do the political prisoners know about the tunnels?" Newkirk asked.

"Nyet. We were going to tell them right before we finish."

The Brit laughed, delighted. "Knock knock, cheers fellas. By the way this hole in your floor's a ready-made escape tunnel."

Piotkin shared a grin with the Englander, then straightened his posture and his face as he snapped his attention back to the colonel. "Daily exercise continues. Tomorrow is big tournament game between Barrack 3C and Barrack 2A." Igor gave a sideways glance, a pleased smile starting to show again as Newkirk tilted his head in curiosity, then Igor said. "We have five guards with money in pool."

Newkirk grinned and puffed his chest out a little, looking like a proud big brother, delighted that Igor and the others had managed to rope the guards into the gambling pool in his absence.

"You've done well Igor and I'm proud of you, all of you. But the time has come for all of you to escape." Hogan said.

To his shock, instead of smiles and celebration, both Igor and Nestor's faces fell. The two officers glanced between themselves, then looked back to Hogan.

"B-but we have done good. We have escape route and tunnels. And..the game."

Hogan's brow creased and he pushed his cap back on his head, feeling the headache come roaring back. "Iggy..." He started. "This is dangerous work. It's not all fun and games, if you fellas get caught doing any of this you could be killed."

"But we are soldiers, Colonel. We could be killed on Russian front just same." Nestor said, his voice like a distant earthquake.

Climbing the rest of the way up the ladder Carter stepped out of the shack and said, "Pardon me, sir, but I gotta say. Their set up isn't that bad. The tunnel entrance is well hidden, and they did a good job of bracing. They've started expanding down there and it...looks pretty good."

"Look…fellas…" Hogan began but Newkirk cut him off this time, making the effort to do it politely.

"Sir, I'm the last person who should ever be sayin' this but, what was our mission in Germany? To sabotage the enemy, aid escaping prisoners and do everything possible to stick it to the Krauts."

"You make it sound like we're setting up a…a branch office. We had a lot going for us at Stalag XIII. We had underground contacts in the area already…"

Igor tried to interrupt, his eyes lighting with a response, but Hogan continued over him.

"Newkirk, you and LeBeau, Olsen and the others had been in the camp long enough to know the grounds like the back of your hand. You knew the guards, the commandant, the layout."

"But sir-" Nestor rumbled.

Hogan was pacing now. "Most important, we were officially sanctioned by London High Command. We had a radio network we could rely on, and a solid escape network that we knew worked."

"Colonel…" Newkirk said finally pointing to Nestor who was holding something in his outstretched hand. "So do they."

Hogan frowned at the object, then took it, feeling it crinkle in his hands. "Cigarettes?" He pulled the pack to his nose and breathed in deep, only then realizing that Newkirk had spent the past five minutes working on one of the smokes, his first in weeks. "These aren't Russian."

Newkirk shook his head. "English, sir. These boys have started receiving Red Cross packages from London."

"How?"

Piotkin exchanged a pleased glance with Nestor before he said, "When you are taken by Gestapo we worry that we will be on our own. We want London to know what happen to you, so we send a three man team to make contact, any way possible. We not hear from them for long time, and think, they are captured."

"First civilian suits. Not very good." Nestor explained.

"Takes some practice…" Newkirk added reassuringly, before he smirked again, clearly having heard this story once already.

"But…one day we send 'dead man' through tunnel, and he come back next night with packages. Three, from London. They contain fruit jam, and ration of sugar and coffee-" Piotkin and Nestor both sighed heavily at the mention of the word, and Hogan couldn't help the beginnings of a smile creeping on to his face.

"And these cigarettes, I imagine." Hogan said.

"Dah. And note from London." Piotkin said, then pointed to the cigarette pack.

Hogan turned the paper box in his hands once before he noticed where the note had been hidden, slid neatly around the cigarettes. He pulled it out and handed the smokes back to their rightful owner before he stepped closer to the beam of the flashlight that Carter had produced.

"Unable to reach Goldilocks. Mama Bear will make all attempts possible to reach Papa Bear. Tell Goldilocks, pack your porridge and go home." Hogan felt his stomach drop a little, not sure if he was elated or devastated by the official word from London that they hadn't been able to get for so long.

Somehow having the high command tell him to pack up and go home made him reluctant to do it. "That…makes it official, fellas." Hogan said, watching as Carter started beaming and Newkirk finally relaxed into a nicotine induced haze. "We're goin' home."


	9. Chapter 9

"Too bloody right!" Newkirk grinned.

"Home!" Carter chimed, teeth gleaming in the darkness.

Hogan still felt the weight in his stomach. He didn't like the idea of simply leaving Lt. Piotkin and his men in the camp. There were too many things that could go wrong, even with the strong start that the Russian prisoners had.

"Have you responded to this message?"

"Dah. But, no reply yet. Mail is…slow." Igor said, smirking wryly.

"I had heard there was a war on. That sort of thing gums up the works." Hogan said, trying to lighten his mood, but he couldn't shake the dread. "The least we can do is give you some of the goodies we brought."

Igor and Nestor exchanged surprised looks then followed Hogan as he led the way back to the vehicles.

Most of the rest of the night was spent off-loading the truck, explaining the original purpose behind the uniforms and armament to Piotkin and his chosen second-in-command, and giving the Russians as detailed a 'how to run a secret sabotage and escape operation out of a prison camp' manual as possible.

"I'd suggest you write all this down somewhere, but you'd have to memorize it and eat it anyway. Why waste the writing paper?" Hogan said, after watching Piotkin's head spin a few times with the bombardment of supplies and information.

The food parcels LeBeau and the ladies at the farm had made, and the radio with its own portable power supply were the biggest hits, and both Piotkin and Nestor took turns operating the machinery. Nestor, especially, was impressed with the way the radio had been rebuilt and he and Caine immediately began to discuss improvements for the piece in Russian. When Caine produced the manual that they had used at the Werner farm, Nestor's eyes widened like a kid in a candy store and he took the book delicately in both hands. It didn't seem to matter that the whole thing was in German. He cracked it open and peered closely at the diagrams under the beam of Caine's flashlight.

Once the chain of men carrying supplies into the tunnels was working on its own Hogan walked over to the staff car where Hochstetter was sitting in the passenger seat with the door open, and his feet resting on a tamped pile of snow.

"There's been a change of plans." Hogan said.

"Yah." Hochstetter mumbled, sourly. "Hogan, our agreement was to use the truck and the supplies to break the prisoners out of this camp and aid them in getting to the allies. Not to organize yet _another_ underground sabotage and escape center. I can not-"

"Let me make it easier for you, Hochstetter." Hogan said and pulled the gun from the holster he'd worn with his uniform. In the same moment the colonel reached out and took Hochstetter's gun away from him, then waited until the tension in the major's shoulders had dissipated. "You will, because you don't have a choice. You're now my prisoner. That make things better for you?"

Hochstetter considered the situation then nodded, sneering. "Yah. Yah it does."

"Good. Now feel free to relax while we finish things up here, then we'll move on to the next plan."

"And that is?" Hochstetter asked, no longer concerned about the previous agreement. Sitting on his own for so long the major had begun to consider just what was going to happen to him once his wife and children were safe. He had not intended that he would be going with them.

Now that he had been thoroughly reminded of how unscrupulous Hogan could be, even when they had set out to achieve the same goal, Hochstetter was toying with the idea of betraying the man. Starting with the operation here at Gusen, and sweeping across into Germany, he would not stop until he had felled the entire system like dominoes.

Hogan smiled softly, watching the Gestapo major and reading the thoughts playing across his face. He was a truly terrible liar, and would have made a dreadful spy. "I'll let you know when I need ya." Hogan said, then turned back to watch the rest of the unloading.

* * *

"Only three men? You're sure?" Hogan asked, eyeing the three Russians standing eager and bright eyed outside the small shack. They were the same three men scheduled to be dead and buried by morning and had needed little time to prepare their 'going away' packages.

"I have good...team." Igor said, nodding firmly. "Most of men in Gusen are happy to be fighting again, even stuck in prison camp. They prefer to stay, so we send out new men."

"And _you're_ sure you want back in?" Hogan asked, looking pointedly at Caine next who held his old Russian uniform in his hands, still dressed as an SS man. On top of the pile of clothes was a pair of brand new insignia that Caine would sew on later. He was entering the camp in the place of one of the NCO's escaping, and Igor and Nestor had both agreed he could do more good in the officer's barracks than The Zoo.

Caine nodded, smiling. "I am needed here, far more than I could ever be in Russia, or with my family. Hopefully we will all...see each other again?"

Hogan, flanked by Carter and Newkirk shook hands with each of the men, thankful to avoid the bone crushing hugs this time.

"We'll make contact as soon as we can. Be careful." Hogan emphasized, hanging onto Caine's hand a second longer than the others.

Before he could turn to go Igor Piotkin barked a soft order and Caine, Nestor and the Lieutenant snapped to attention, saluting crisply.

Hogan felt something pang in his chest and as he and his men returned the salutes, the American colonel hoped that whatever angels had been watching over the Stalag 13 crew would take up residence in Austria for a while.

"Stay alive." He said, before he and his men headed back for the vehicles.

Meanwhile the newest members of the underground, code name Nesting Doll, disappeared back into their tunnel.

* * *

"Where to now, Colonel?" Carter asked as they collected around the truck. With the three escaping Russian POWs, Hogan now had nineteen people under his care and crowding around him. That wasn't counting the women they had left with LeBeau at the farm.

Hochstetter had been watched under gun point most of the night. Hogan was sure he would have tried stealing the truck or raising an alarm if he hadn't been.

"We go back to Herr Limler's place to pick up our pigeons, then we head west. You fellas can come with us, or follow the escape route through the farm." Hogan said, gesturing to the three easterners.

He had to repeat the option in barely remembered Russian before one of them responded plainly, "You, sir!"

"Alright. We reserved enough uniforms for everyone in civilian clothes. We'll change at the farm. Anyone not in German uniform is a POW being transferred to a Stalag in Germany. We'll come up with the reason later. Same arrangements as before only we'll put LeBeau in the back of the truck, Newkirk, you'll drive the staff car. Any questions?"

Once more Hogan was greeted with silence and he gave a nod. "We're almost through, fellas. If you can sleep, do so. Next stop is Stalag 13."

* * *

The trip back into Germany went even smoother than the trip out. They crossed over the border in the early hours of the morning and with the women well hidden, and all the men dressed as Russian POWs, the guards did little more than glance in the back of the truck before waving it through. The staff car was waved on without any hesitation and as the sun rose an exhausted Newkirk took the lead, pointing the staff car west.

Hogan had kept the note from London, and had pulled it out and read it more than a dozen times as they traveled. It didn't feel real. He'd imagined all along that his duty station at the stalag would end one of two ways. He'd be shot as a spy, or they would be liberated. Few other options ever really entered his mind, and he didn't like the idea of leaving a job undone.

His men on the other hand seemed ecstatic.

All but LeBeau, at first. His country still occupied by Axis powers, he didn't have his own home to go to. He _had_ long wanted to join the Free French Airforce, however, and fight with more than a whisk and a spatula in his hands. That thought had put an intent look of fulfillment on his face.

Hogan was wondering himself what he would do, where he would be assigned, and what could possibly top his work at the stalag.

"What do you intend to do with me, Herr Colonel?" Hochstetter asked from two feet away in the back seat of the car and Hogan almost jumped. The major had been silent, and he had assumed, asleep for the past few hours.

"That depends on your cooperation, Major." Hogan responded, rerouting his thoughts.

"I have not made any trouble for you." Hochstetter pointed out, sounding more like he was trying to win an argument.

"No. But you've been thinking about it." Hogan said. He'd kept the gun handy, and pointed at the major for the first hour of the trip. Now it was back in its holster, but the major's weapon hadn't been returned.

"And my son?"

"Your son has chosen to fulfill his duty and remain in Gusen."

"What!?"

"He's an adult, Major, and officially a soldier in the Russian army. He's doing his duty, just the way you taught him."

"You said that-"

"I agreed to see to the safety of your wife and daughter. And I intend to get them to London. I think I should point out Major that your _son's_ safety now relies solely on the operations at Gusen remaining a secret. If anyone were to betray that information to the authorities his life would be in grave danger."

Hochstetter was silent, and angry as he realized the corner he had been pushed into. It felt like it was the exact same corner that he had been in before, only now there was even less that he could do about it.

Worse still, the major's actions had apparently been the deciding factor. If he had stayed in Berlin, he realized, none of Hogan's schemes would have gone as smoothly.

"You have been…recalled by your superiors." The Gestapo man ground out, trying to rescue some of the ground he had lost, to console himself with the fact that he still had Hogan. The evidence against the man was still locked safely in his office in Berlin, and there was nothing that Hogan could do to reconstruct operations at Stalag 13.

For his part, Hogan merely watched the major, dark eyes darting back and forth as he thought through the conversation, then asked, "You plan to stay in Berlin?"

Hochstetter stiffened, straightening his back and looking forward with a set to his jaw. "Not everyone who gets into trouble in Germany deserts his post, Colonel Hogan."

First Hogan turned to stare at the major, impressed at the man's fortitude and dedication. Even if he disagreed with the Gestapo, their mission and their leader, he had to admire Hochstetter for his courage. Then an idea came into Hogan's head and he smiled a little.

Then another idea. And another, and before long he had to turn bodily so that his face was hidden from view. After all, it wasn't polite to grin at someone about to lose either their job or their life for being a traitor.


	10. Chapter 10

Schultz started his third lackluster march around the camp, staring at the giant crater that still sat empty near the wire. The bomb that the crashing plane had dropped had set fire to the wooden posts of the fence when it landed, and what remained of them stood charred at half their original height, leaning forlornly. Like dead stalks of corn sprouting from the snow. The wire around the posts sagged uselessly, but the prisoners still remained chastely in their barracks.

Schultz passed slowly behind Barracke 2 wishing there would be the smell of something wonderful on the breeze, the sound of Newkirk's bright cockney, or perhaps Colonel Hogan leading the glee club in a song, but there could be none of those things.

LeBeau and Carter were presumed dead, killed by the bomb that had landed in camp, nothing left of them but ash. Newkirk was probably frozen to death somewhere in the German countryside, and Hogan. Poor Hogan.

Schultz shook his head sadly remembering how badly the colonel had looked all those months ago. Captured by the Gestapo major and carted off to Berlin. Schultz could hardly hope that the colonel had survived in all that time. If only Hogan were here, he thought. He would set things right.

But Hogan was not here, and neither really was Colonel Klink. The man was nothing more than a shell these days. He had stopped eating, and sat in his office most afternoons staring at miles of paperwork that would never be completed.

Klink had tried at first, of course, to get supplies from Hammelburg. He had pleaded with the burgermeister in town, begged the business owners for money, and even tried selling some of the stores of champagne, caviar and nice things he had set aside for himself.

The money was barely enough to cover the repairs on one of the bombed supply trucks. Klink had tried forcing the prisoners out into the forest to cut down trees, but they didn't have the tools to turn the trees into lumber.

The prisoners were overcrowded, living together in the handful of buildings that hadn't been affected by the crash. Some of the guards had deserted and those that had been wounded by the disaster had been transferred north to recover.

Most days Schultz patrolled the grounds by himself, only dropping in on the barracks to warm himself up from time to time. For once, he was too depressed to sit around and do nothing.

Stalag 13 hadn't been his favorite place in the world but, for a military man, it hadn't been the worst either.

As he passed the guardhouse near the gate Schultz shook his head at his own morose thoughts. He was even imagining that curious little song that the prisoners sometimes liked to whistle when they were marching. It had a nice tune, and he could easily remember the faces of poor Carter and little LeBeau as they sometimes sang the words that went with it.

Schultz found himself humming along with what he at first was sure was in his head, his helmet knocking back and forth on his skull as he swayed to the beat.

He became a little confused when the melody actually got louder. To his surprise the prisoners from Barracke 2 began to spill out of the building, unannounced, forming up as if they had been ordered for roll call. Mouth hanging open Schultz turned in a full circle, watching the other barracks coming alive, emptying into the compound, creating a cacophony of sound that roused the commandant from his office, but did nothing to quell the whistled song.

Barely dressed, shirt and uniform blouse hanging open over his dressing gown, Klink polished off his monocle for the first time in three weeks and stepped out onto the porch in time to see a Gestapo car round the corner on the road outside the gate, moving at a walking pace and leading a slow parade of people and vehicles toward the camp.

Behind the car was a supply truck, then another, and a third. Then…oh then!

"Colonel Hogan." Schultz breathed.

The American looked battered, worn and tired. What that mean Gestapo man had to have done to him, but he was walking and smiling that curious, proud smile. Still alive.

And right behind him.

"Newkirk." Schultz declared brightly. The Englishman also had bruises on his face and was walking with a slight limp, but he was alive too and flashed a bright grin to the man walking beside him.

"Carter?!" Schultz had already begun moving toward the gates, not even waiting for Klink's order to open them and let the small parade in. The always bright and cheerful American sergeant was alive and well. Not blown into ash by a bomb. Not nothing more than a wisp of snow in a giant crater. And he was talking to someone. Someone that Schultz couldn't see yet.

The Gestapo car pulled through the gate and Schultz snapped a salute, but he wasn't looking at the small major, or the men in the car, when he did. His salute was for Colonel Hogan and the men with him. Three in total that included…

"LeBeau!" Schultz nearly wept with joy at seeing the little Frenchman, and instead found himself laughing wildly as the parade and the whistled song swelled to a crescendo, then gradually overtaken by the noise of the camp.

He didn't recognize any of the dozen or so men that had entered Stalag 13 behind Hogan and his boys. Nor did he wonder why Hogan would have returned to the stalag along with fifteen Russian prisoners. He didn't care.

He knew nothing, and he hoped to always know nothing for the rest of the war.

As soon as Klink got a good look at who had been marched into his camp, and at who was riding in the back of the staff car, he quickly disappeared into his quarters, rushing to his room to dress. Terrified and exhilarated at the same time. His fear that General Burkhalter had arrived early to send him packing to the Russian front had been assuaged when he recognized the pinched face of Major Hochstetter through the car window.

Hochstetter's arrival wasn't necessarily a good thing, but Klink had known only hopelessness in the past few weeks and this was at least a change.

By the time he returned to his office, Hochstetter and his four men were standing in the outer hall, looking impatient and on edge. Klink gave flustered apologies as he led the way into his office, appalled at the mess that he had managed to completely overlook and apologizing yet again for it.

"I must confess I'm very surprised to see you, Major Hochstetter. I…I…I'm even more surprised to see Colonel Hogan and…and…"

Hochstetter gave an odd glance toward one of his men, then sighed and said, "Yes, Colonel, I imagine this is so. I…have been surprised myself."

"Eh…" Klink paused, his smile waning, but he nodded and agreed, "Yes. Would you like to sit-"

"No." Hochstetter said, before he produced a sheaf of papers that he slapped on Klink's desk. "This is the official transfer of my prisoners into your custody. Colonel Hogan, Sergeant Carter, Corporal Newkirk and Corporal LeBeau were all arrested by the Gestapo…by mistake." The last was ground through the major's teeth.

Klink's jaw dropped open, and he sat with a thud on his chair, his stare going from the fuming major to the stack of folded papers, investigating each one hurriedly. "By mistake?" He breathed.

"Yah…a case of mistaken identity. My men were…hasty, and arrested someone who looked like Hogan only to have him escape."

"But, but, but I thought that-"

"It was a mistake, Klink. And that is all!" Hochstetter snapped and Klink nodded, shoving the papers away from him as if they had suddenly ignited.

"A mistake. Of course sir. But…surely General Burkhalter informed you, this prison camp is about to be dismantled. The prisoners transferred. Why would you bring them back here?"

"I have brought you supplies." Hochstetter said, beginning to look like he had swallowed a balloon that was slowly choking him to death. "And some Russian prisoners transferred from another camp that will help your men with the work. Hogan has agreed to convince the men under his command to also help with the rebuilding. Burkhalter has…conceded to give you a temporary extension on your deadline."

This time Klink said nothing, unable to believe any of what was being said, and knowing, somehow, deep down in the very pit of his being that this…all of this…was Hogan's doing.

"I will send and officer in two weeks to recover the additional prisoners and return them to their stalag." Every phrase Hochstetter uttered seemed as if it were being pulled from him, like a deeply rooted tooth.

And the men with Hochstetter were smiling. Klink caught them once or twice out of the corner of his eye. It didn't make sense that they should be smiling but Klink didn't question it.

He had his stalag back. He wasn't going to the Russian Front. He wasn't looking at the end of his career and every one of his prisoners were now safely returned. His perfect record, once again restored.

"Please believe me when I say…" Klink began, rising to his feet, in awe of the momentous sequence of events that had granted him back all that he held dear. "That this is one the most incredible-"

Hochstetter screamed a furious, unintelligible sound, cutting the commandant off before he spun on one heel and left the office.

Once he was certain he was alone Klink moved to the door, shut and latched it, and began to dance.

* * *

Outside the prisoners had formed several lines, talking loudly and working together to empty the supplies from the trucks. The men of Barracks 2, however, were not excitedly greeting their returned comrades quite the way Schultz expected them to. They were all happy of course, but none of them seemed all that surprised to see Carter and LeBeau risen from the dead, or Colonel Hogan and Newkirk, survivors of the vicious Gestapo.

But even as he pondered, Schultz reminded himself that he was going to see and hear nothing, and be glad that the snow he was standing in did not also contain dead German bodies and Russian blood. He had his favorite Americans back, his favorite Brit making sly comments and happily smoking a cigarette, and his favorite Frenchman promising that for Christmas, Schultz would get a celebratory apple strudel, all to himself.

Hogan had to admit that he'd felt a jolt when his men had rounded the bend and the main gates of Stalag 13 had come into view. They had already technically been _in_ the stalag forty-eight hours ago but the official return had felt victorious in a way. The silly marching song had been LeBeau's idea, and a good one according to the prisoners who had fallen out to watch their return.

Hochstetter had looked hopping mad when he marched back out of Klink's office, but a nod from one of the SS men, four of the civilians from Werner's farm wearing the frequently traded Gestapo uniforms, had reassured the American colonel that the major had done his part. Hogan watched the car as it drove out of camp and sent his best wishes with it, hoping Hochstetter eventually made it back to Berlin safely. He wanted the man to see what would be waiting in his mail as quickly as possible:

Copies of pictures that Werner had taken at the farm after Hochstetter had driven the truck into the clearing. Photographs that clearly and absolutely linked Hochstetter to the act of aiding and abetting the enemy. Extra insurance as it were, to keep Hochstetter in line for as long as possible. Especially until Stalag 13 had been rebuilt and Hogan had managed to get Hochstetter's family, and the civilians from Werner's farm, out of Germany.

As he stood surveying the damage, shocked that more of the prisoners and guards hadn't been injured by the disaster, LeBeau jogged up to the colonel with a clipboard that held an official tally.

"That's everybody?" Hogan asked, and the Frenchman nodded.

"Some of the men took a little more time than others, but oui, that is all of them."

Hogan felt a thrill flip through his chest, reluctant to look at the paper. Terrified of what it would represent. A yay or a nay. An escape, or a fresh start. A long conversation with London, or a short one.

"Thanks, LeBeau." Hogan said, but the Frenchman stayed by his side.

"Aren't you going to look, Colonel?"

"Personally, I'd be dyin' to have a look, if I were the colonel, Louie." Newkirk said, stepping up behind the Frenchman and throwing his arm around the shorter man's shoulders.

"I sure wanna know." Carter said sidling up on LeBeau's other side. Kinch, Olsen, Wilson and Sumner, and a dozen other men had begun to collect behind Hogan's personal staff, murmuring their own eagerness at knowing the final answer.

"I…I can't look. Kinch." Hogan said finally, and handed the clipboard to the tall staff sergeant that now held ten times the respect of the men in Stalag 13 as he'd had before. Those that had spent the past few weeks under his command, turned to him attentively, hiding various smirks and smiles.

"Colonel…I know this will come as a shock to you, but for once in our lives, we managed to be unanimous."

"We're stayin', Colonel." Newkirk said.

"Oui. The war isn't over. We have a lot of work to do." LeBeau said, starting to jitter eagerly.

"A-and we can't leave Nesting Doll out there on their own, sir." Carter added.

"Wouldn't be right giving up before we're done." Kinch put in, and on cue the men around him agreed with murmurs and nods.

Hogan dug down deep into the emptying well of self-control to keep himself together. As good as 'home' had sounded, this sounded ten times better. _This_ was right, and his men clearly thought so too or they wouldn't have agreed to stick around with him.

LeBeau was right, they had a lot of work to do, in and out-side of the wire, but there was no doubt in Hogan's mind that they would accomplish it.

"Alright." Hogan said, softly, then took the clipboard back from his second in command and said, "You men know what to do. First priority is the barracks, and the emergency tunnel. Kinch, let's see if we can't get London on the horn."

A dozen confirmations met Hogan's ears and the men scattered, some flipping cursory salutes before turning to the tasks ahead. Before he followed Kinch into Barrack 2 Hogan turned to see Klink watching him from the porch in front of his office. The moment Hogan looked his way the German stiffened, snapping his heels together and giving the slightest of bows to the colonel.

Hogan gave him a nod in return, then turned his attention back to the clipboard in his hands, finally willing to look at the votes of every man in the camp. He couldn't stop the smile when he realized that the paper held only a drawing and a signature.

The drawing was of a hand, the thumb curled inward and the pointer and middle finger raised.

V for Victory.

The signature below it was barely legible, but Hogan could easily see that it started with an 'N'.

Das Ende

* * *

Thank you for your support and readership. I hope you enjoyed it.

And a giant thank you to all the men and women who have served and are serving now.

This story is dedicated to a particular A1C of whom I am very proud.

Cheers

-Gunney


	11. Chapter 11

A brief post script to "The Caper" that I've been toying with. Because let's face it. I left a very important 'hero' out in the cold.

* * *

 _Three Weeks Later_

The last of the barracks to be rebuilt had begun to take shape. The work went quickly and smoothly with the help of the additional "Russian Prisoners" that Hogan had brought from the farm in Austria, and he was looking forward to being able to house all his men comfortably, especially as the newer barracks were better equipped to weather the freezing temperatures of the season.

The tunnels had been repaired and reinforced, and London seemed to have forgiven him after the long and heated discussion they'd had about orders, and why Hogan was supposed to follow them. In fact London had been delighted to hear that there was a new sabotage group starting activities in Austria.

Hogan and Kinch were in the tunnel trying yet again to make contact with Nesting Doll that evening when both men heard the rattle that meant that the emergency tunnel hatch had been accessed.

"Nobody went out tonight." Hogan said quietly, then nodded for Kinch to shut down the radio. Moving to the open bunk ladder Hogan called up for LeBeau, who was on watch at the front door, to douse the lights and keep the men quiet. The Frenchman responded to the affirmative and Hogan pulled one of the emergency weapons that they kept in various spots in the tunnels, before he and Kinch started down the hallway.

As they got closer to the newly repaired section of the tunnel they could hear something scraping around, and a voice mumbling in the darkness. It sounded strange, but not sinister. Hogan still jumped when Carter and Newkirk came up behind Kinch, armed to the teeth.

Hogan frowned at their over-eagerness to defend themselves, but could hardly blame them, given the events of the last few months. He motioned for quiet with a finger to his lips then crept forward, rounding a bend in the tunnel and peering into the darkness that lay ahead.

"Can't understand it. Things must have really fallen apart." A voice said, followed by more scraping and scrabbling. "Can't even find a bloody light switch." They heard loud and clear in a proper English accent. Then the movement stopped abruptly with a startled gasp.

All Hogan could do was hang his head and bury his face in his hand. It couldn't be. There was no way. It was impossible.

They heard a few hesitant advancing steps, and the sound of something dragging along the wall, then silence again.

Newkirk shook his head and straightened, turning around and walking back down the tunnel as he muttered, "Un-bloody-believable. The man's a maniac."

A few more steps and the person sneaking down the dark tunnel ran into some boxes stacked against the wall with a crash that made Hogan wince, and prompted a startled whirlwind of inexpertly delivered karate blows that did more damage to the man than the boxes.

Hogan turned his head as Kinch sighed. "I'm sorry, Colonel, but you're on your own." The man said, bailing out in a most un-courageous way.

The colonel looked back down the tunnel finally able to spot a lighter shade of white on a darker shape that might have been a body, the same body was still sneaking down the tunnel pressed tightly against the wall.

Hogan looked over his shoulder at Carter, expecting the sergeant to depart hastily just like the others had, and was alarmed to see Carter grinning expectantly into the gloom, like he was waiting for a movie to start.

When Carter caught the stern look he shrugged, " _I_ like him, Colonel."

With a heavy sigh Hogan straightened, slipped the safety of his weapon back on and called into the dark. "Crittendon, would you like me to turn on a light?"

* * *

*sigh* There. I feel better now.


End file.
